


Pruning the Buddleia

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Case Fic, Divorce, Drunk Sex, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Murder, Mutual Pining, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Parenthood, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Series 4 doesn’t exist, Slow Burn, Smut, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Tags will be added as the fic progresses, Unhealthy Relationships, but they will be, failing marriage, neither of them are okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-03-02 11:33:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18810064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: Mary’s up to something, John’s lonely, and Sherlock’s reaching out to Irene Adler for advice.The news of the death of a successful doctor is brought to Sherlock via a grief-stricken daughter. She wants to find out what really happened, refusing to believe that her father died of completely natural causes.Initially Sherlock takes the case due to sheer boredom of not having John around, but he soon begins to pick at a thread which unravels not only an undercurrent of criminal activity in the medical world, but his personal life as well.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic is dedicated to my dear, lovely friend Lisa. 
> 
> Tags will be added throughout, so please watch out for them! I should also add that there are several sensitive and slightly controversial topics thrown about in this fic. The opinions stated by characters and the debates had by characters surrounding these topics are not representative of my own views. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading! Please feel free to leave a comment/kudos, or hit me up on Instagram (@langyfod). 
> 
> Thank you!

There are some things we take for granted; we don’t realise we’ve mistreated them until we’re without them.

Should you grow up in a wet, windy country and you find yourself trekking across the desert, you will quickly come to realise that you miss the rain. The rain will soak you to your core; it’ll leaving you freezing, make you ill. And yet you’ll miss the coolness of the raindrops as they fall against your skin, bringing life to the world and wetting your appetite for more.

For the longest time he was my rain. He was the bane of my life and I yearned, sometimes, for the constant onslaught of thunder to subdue into something akin to sunlight. Now I had too much sunlight, and I realised how greatly I missed the rain.

 

John Watson bounced his knee while he typed. Occasionally, his bare heel reached the soft carpet. It thumped gently, barely audible as the soft curls caught the vibrations. The carpet had been chosen specifically for the nursery, the safest and best they could offer their daughter.

John’s finger hovered over the enter button of his laptop keyboard. He withdrew it and bit his nail, thinking. 

His other hand supported his daughter’s torso as she chewed the rusk he’d given her a few minutes beforehand. She gurgled and drooled as she gnawed on it, some of her spit dripping onto John’s supporting hand. John sighed quietly.

“You mucky pup,” he chastised, though there was no malice to his voice. 

Rosie gurgled a bit more in response, then went back to chewing on the biscuit, gripping it tightly with both hands.

“There’s no way I can publish that,” John thought to himself, rubbing his face absently. “People will definitely begin to ask questions.”

Through the slats in the blinds, John could see that the sun was slowly starting to set. It lit up the clouds as it sunk behind them, leaving a warm glow in its wake. The window was open a crack, and a gentle summer breeze eased its way into the room. John couldn’t appreciate it. There wasn’t much to be cheerful about. 

He didn’t exactly know when he’d fallen in love with Sherlock, but he knew that it had happened. He caught himself sometimes, when he plucked loose hairs off the back of Sherlock’s coat as Sherlock told the police officers at crime scenes they were all incompetent. He’d caught himself, too, when he put a few extra biscuits on Sherlock’s saucer when he made them both tea. And again when Sherlock was passed out on the sofa, shivering from an immovable cold and John had automatically kissed his forehead as he draped a blanket over Sherlock’s sleeping form.

All John knew for certain that he was definitely, hopelessly, irresistibly in love with a man he could never have. And it physically hurt him. 

He didn’t know exactly when he’d fallen in love with Sherlock, but he knew it had happened before the fall.

John had had no qualms in telling Sherlock’s gravestone that he loved the deceased, or that he promised that he’d be with him soon; the gun lay dormant in his pocket like a rock, pulling him down. 

It didn’t bother him, before Sherlock had fallen, when he caught himself in small domesticated acts of tenderness which while wholly insignificant, said more of the bond between them than words ever could. 

The feelings had hidden themselves behind making the fire before he left for the weekend, ensuring Sherlock would be warm while he was away. They’d crept around them in small circles as Sherlock fell asleep in the back of a cab and John hasn’t pushed him away, but instead settled down and wrapped his arm around the quietly snoring detective. They’d manifested themselves and then died in the shadows as John switched meals with Sherlock when Sherlock ordered something a new meal he didn’t like. They’d sat quietly and watched as John took paid holiday from work to attend Sherlock’s grandfather’s funeral, a man who John had never met before but whose death Sherlock was saddened by. Sherlock had never mentioned his grandfather before he had told John of his passing over breakfast.

But then Sherlock had fallen, and Mary had wriggled her way into his life like a weed growing in a cracked brick wall. If it were to be pulled from the crumbling cement, the wall would collapse around it, the roots holding it all together.

Whether it was because John’s dating life was no longer impeded by the meddling detective or whether it was simple loneliness or whether he truly did find another love in her, John had latched onto Mary like she was a life raft and he’d just been thrown overboard. So terrified of drowning that he hadn’t registered the jagged rocks he was being steered into.

Mary helped John through the worst portion of his life. Ranked only higher than his stint limping around London and living in a tiny bedsit because he didn’t know then what was waiting right around the corner for him. Who was waiting around the corner for him.

And just as John couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he realised he was in love with Sherlock Holmes, he also couldn’t establish when he’d fallen out of love with Mary.

“Probably when she shot Sherlock,” John’s brain supplied, and John shook himself. “The surgery excuse was bullshit. He died on the operating table. You read the file. You spoke to the doctor.”

Downstairs, Mary was cooking dinner. Every now and again John caught a whiff of something nice. Coconut, chilli, the subtle hints of lemon or lime or something else citrus that John couldn’t place wafted up through the stairs on a breeze which flowed in through the open back door.

It smelled good. Mary was a keen and very good cook. There was always a freshly baked loaf in the bread bin, and the two of them kept the staff area of their GP Surgery well stocked with cakes and biscuits.

In amongst the prenatal guides on their bookshelf stood a vast assortment of Jamie Oliver cookbooks. There were a few smatterings of John’s old childhood favourites, such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which sat between Bridget Jones’s Diary and Jamie Cooks Italy, gathering dust until Mary dislodged it in her hunt to find her next home cooking adventure. John’s books had become a source of decoration, to further the idea that the couple were a sophisticated, as well as educated, pair with the time to spare to read and discuss books. John barely had enough time to watch his favourite quiz program on the television.

John wondered when it had happened. When he had realised that his books had become an ornament.

He answered the question for himself.

“It was the fourth of August, 2015.”

The voice vanished as quickly as it had come, and John frowned at the laptop screen. He knew he was right.

“She’s up to something,” John murmured to Rosie who hummed in response, yet more saliva trickling down the rusk and catching in one of the cracks. John kept bouncing his knee. “It’s Tuesday. She never cooks anything new on a Tuesday. That’s not how it works. If she’s cooking on a Tuesday we know she’s up to something, don’t we?” His voice rose while he spoke until it resembled that silly childish talk adults used to talk to babies.

Rosie had grown bored of the rusk, and by way of extension, listening to her dad talk about too complicated things for a baby to understand, and so she dropped the rusk onto the desk in front of her. John watched her as she looked around, then reached towards John’s laptop.

“Are you going to edit daddy’s blogpost?” John asked, moving the laptop closer for her to slam her hand down on whichever keys took her fancy. “Help me write a less shit diary entry? Go on, then. But don’t tell mummy I said shit, alright? That’d be too much ammunition for her. Because you’re not supposed to swear in front of babies. Are you? In case you learn what the word is even though you’re a baby and you can’t even talk yet. I’d have to move back in with Uncle Sherlock if mummy kicked me out, wouldn’t I? And that’d be a real shame, wouldn’t it?”

Rosie smacked her hand across the keyboard with all the force she could muster, bits of crumb from the rusk falling from her fingertips and settling in the gaps between the keys. John smiled, and Rosie laughed as she continued her assault on the keyboard.

“John!” Mary called from downstairs, a cheery tone to her voice. “Dinner!”

John stood up, leaving the laptop lid open with the blog post he had no intention of posting open for the world to see.

In a small, self-destructive way John wanted Mary to snoop across it. He was in the mood for a good argument. Test the waters. Find out what would really happen when Mary realised that John sought the love of someone else.

Whether writing a confession of love for another man was tantamount to cheating or not, John reasoned that Mary’s reaction to the post would be a good indication of whether she loved him.

“What makes you think she doesn’t know?” The voice in John’s head interrupted.

John deleted the word document and shut the laptop down.

“Coming!” He shouted back, toeing into his slippers before carrying Rosie down stairs.

—

“You’re not honestly telling me he’s still with that bitch, are you?” Irene asked, exasperated. It was an cloudy, boring Tuesday evening in May, and she stood at the end of the garden, phone pressed against her ear as she listened to her friend whine about a lost love.

Irene had decided that should she ever find a partner as clingy or needy as Sherlock Holmes appeared to be in his love-life, she would file for a restraining order. If she heard anymore about John bloody Watson… it was only a matter of time before John moved back in with Sherlock, and from what Irene could gather John was eager to start a relationship with the detective.

The only problem was that Sherlock would undoubtedly balls it up. And she didn’t think John’s mad assassin wife would take too kindly to the idea, either.

—

A few miles away in Baker Street, Sherlock wedged his phone between his ear and his shoulder while he buttered his toast, swearing quietly as the knife tore the bread.

“There’s nothing I can do,” Sherlock replied to Irene’s comment, deciding to simply eat the toast whether it was buttered properly or not. He dumped one slice on top of the other, then bit into it. “It’s his decision, and he’s made himself quite clear as to where I stand in the matter,” he said thickly through a mouthful of slightly warm, chewy toast before he thickened his accent into something that barely resembled the impersonated, and said:

“Mary is the mother of my child and I like vagina and Rosie fell out of Mary’s vagina and hurhurhur vagina boobies heteronormativity we’ve got to stay together for the kids,” he huffed and put the plate down. “That man would sooner ride the Central Line fully naked at rush hour than give up his chance at a nuclear family. It’s sickening.”

On the other end of the phone, Irene sighed heavily. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard this complaint from Sherlock, but it didn’t lessen his sympathy for him.

“You’re so dramatic. He’ll get bored,” she said, with as much tenderness as she could muster. “They all do. Most of my clients are happily married men.”

“I don’t want him to cheat on Mary,” Sherlock grumbled. “Of course not. She’s a horrible woman but she doesn’t deserve that. It’s just… he’s clearly unhappy with Mary, and he’s a bigger idiot than I’ve given him credit for if he thinks he isn’t. You know I caught him asleep in his old bed the other day? He said he was going to put Rosie to bed but he left Rosie downstairs with me. Five minutes later he was snoring. He’s not sleeping properly at home,” Sherlock sighed. He waited for Irene to reply, but when she didn’t, he continued.

“Maybe Mary should cheat on him, that way he’d have an excuse for cutting ties.” The knife pierced the butter as he put more pressure on it, slicing it clean in two.

“John already has a good reason for leaving her. She shot you.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, so Irene chose a different approach.

“Why don’t you just tell him how you feel?” Irene suggested. She flicked her Parliament cigarette into a plant pot teeming with lavender. Bees swarmed around them. Irene watched them disinterestedly.

In the background, Sherlock could hear the chatter and dull music of a party.

Somewhere in Kensington, he believed. The screams of cake-fuelled children echoed down the phone and Sherlock could only grin at the prospect of Irene attending an upper-middle class family party. He thought of her trying to join in with the gossip, about which ballet teachers were better and who they wanted to be the next Prime Minister. Irene continued. “Look, I’m nearly done here. I’ll come over and we’ll go out tonight. We’ll find you a nice one-night stand – the old fashioned way.”

Sherlock frowned. The next piece of toast mere millimetres from his mouth.

“Clubbing?” He asked. “You can’t be serious. The last time I went clubbing they were playing the Spice Girls.”

“They still play the Spice Girls, Sherlock, along with a few others,” Irene chuckled. “I’ll pick you up at ten sharp. Wear something sexy.”

Irene hung up, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts in the quiet 221B.

— 

 

The placemats had been a wedding present.

Red with cream stitching, they matched the kitchen’s colour scheme and for that John was grateful. The gravy boat they’d been gifted was an ornate mallard, and John longed to smash it. It held no place in their minimalistic townhouse décor, with the plain red tiles set around a grey glass oven and predominately beige walls. It wouldn’t look out of place in 221B, in fact, John could sit it sitting in the cupboard quite snuggly with the mishmash of mugs from various charity shops, power companies, and other random mugs which had gathered over the years. Sherlock was a mug hoarder. John hated the charcoal grey uniform mugs Mary had bought.

The mallard gravy boat sat in the centre of their dining table, neither of them really sure where to put it.

They lived on a long street in Southfields, a small area in the corner of South-West London. It was next door to Wimbledon Common and a little further from that, Richmond Park, with outstanding schools and nurseries and plenty of wildlife for John to feel that he wasn’t depriving Rosie of the adventurous, outdoor childhood he’d experienced. He wanted Rosie to experience nature before London-life claimed her as one of its own.

He and Mary had worked tirelessly on the garden when they first moved in together. Bright green grass swayed gently in the breeze, and their wooden fence was painted a nice, duck egg blue. The flowerbeds around the garden’s perimeter were exploding with colour in the May sunshine. Pansies and forget-me-nots hung over onto the small paving stones John had built into a path, and a BBQ sat against the wall of the house.

It was a cosy affair, and he and Mary were proud to call it their own. They’d had a house-warming party and Sherlock had spent a great deal of time in the garden, John remembered. 

“Sherlock, you realise the party is inside, right?” John had called from the back door, an ice cold can of lager in his hand. “Here, got you a beer.”

Sherlock straightened up from where he’d been crouched by the closest flowerbed, accepting the can John held out for him.

“Your garden is boring,” he said, taking a step back to look around as he cracked open the can. “I’ve made a hole in the fence for you.”

John tilted his head to the side. “Urm, why?”

“So that animals can travel to your garden more easily,” Sherlock replied. “Hedgehogs are an endangered species, John. We need to do what we can for them. The back of your garden encroaches onto Wimbledon Park, if you put out a bowl of dog food you’ll see plenty of hedgehogs in not time at all.”

John blinked at him.

“I don’t think Mary would like that very much.”

Sherlock shrugged. 

The next day, Sherlock had appeared at John’s front door with a rucksack full of items to bring wildlife into the garden. He’d brought a ladybug house made out of old toilet-paper tubes and bits of sticks. John fully believed Sherlock had made it himself, and there was a small wooden hut designed for hedgehogs. Sherlock had also brought dozens of bird feeders. 

“The birds you’ll attract will eat the bugs,” Sherlock told John as he hung one up on the garden fence. “Mary has to be happy about less bugs. Although if you do see a stag beetle I’d like you to catch it for me. Their populations are rising in South-West London and I’d like to see one for myself.”

John has mentioned Sherlock’s sudden love of wildlife the next day when she’d spotted all the amendments Sherlock had made to the garden. 

She was knelt at the base of the buddleia, snipping off the dead stalks in the shadow cast by the large purple flowers overhead. “He does know it’s our garden, though, doesn’t he?”

John shrugged.

“I was just surprised that it was him recording Autumn-Watch and Gardener’s World, not Mrs Hudson like he always said.” He sat down next to Mary and tucked a loose blonde curl behind her ear. “The sun suits you,” he said, smiling. “Look at those freckles.”

Mary brushed him off with a smile. The morning sickness had worn off two weeks prior, and John didn’t know whether it was the pregnancy glow, or the sunlight creating a halo around his wife’s face, but he was sure that she was the most beautiful person he would ever see. A slight blush blossomed across her cheeks.

“Oh, shut up,” she said. “Help me with this garden. If we sort it out now it’ll be easier to deal with next year.”

“Do gardens work like that? I thought things just… grew. Like weeds and stuff.”

“They do, but you can control their growth. Which is where plants and dinosaur differ. Take this buddleia, see all the dead leaves?”

John nodded.

“The owners before us didn’t do any pruning, so now it’s the far too high and blocking the sun from the rest of the garden. See? That patio ought to be in sunlight, but the buddleia is blocking it out. We need to knock it back and that way we’ll have the benefits of the buddleia, as well as the sun in the evenings. What’s the point in having a south-facing back garden if you can’t see the sun?”

John smiled as he listened to her.

“The baby is going to love growing up here,” he sighed, but Mary paused in her pruning.

“Grow up? We’re not staying here, John. That was never the plan.”

“Well, it was the plan as far as I’m aware,” John replied, now frowning as a pearly white cloud slipped over the sun. “I thought that’s why we chose it. Good nurseries, good schools, friendly neighbourhood…”

“If our baby grows up here they’ll have no personality,” Mary said, standing up and gathering the cuttings. “Suburbia is the worst environment for a child.”

“A city is no better,” John replied curtly, also rising. “I can’t think of anything worse than raising a child in a claustrophobic flat without a garden. And I grew up in suburbia; I think I turned out alright.”

“You grew up in a turbulent suburb,” Mary replied curtly. “Your family didn’t fit in there, and you know it. Your dad was a depressive alcoholic and your mum was a worn-out nurse, that’s hardly the perfect family.”

“Every family has their problems,” John grumbled, “it’s rare for a family to be completely normal, and if they look normal you know there’s a massive problem behind the curtains. Even the most normal looking people have strange tendencies, and you’re hardly the poster child for normality.”

The cloud had blocked the sun completely now, and the rays shooting out from behind the white cloud turned it grey in comparison to the brilliantly bright sunlight. Mary shot him a glare, then finished gathering up the largest of the cuttings.

“I can only say sorry so many times,” she said, turning to the back door. “And you have your faults, too.”

No more was said on the subject of where their baby would grow-up.

John reminisced over the first warning signs that Mary wouldn’t be the mother he’d expected her to be while she organised the cutlery on the dining room table. There was a bottle of formula already waiting for Rosie on the kitchen counter, along with a jar of baby food.

Rosie grabbed the placemat and gripped onto it tightly with her small, clumsy hands.

“You need to stop holding her so much,” Mary told him, plating up their curry. It had come out sickly, pale green. “She’ll become needy, and it’ll make drop-off times a nightmare. I don’t want to have to deal with a crying baby every morning like the other mums. Honestly, one tear and they’re on their knees and ready with the dummy.”

Mary placed the plate a few inches away from Rosie’s grasping hands, and then took a seat at the head of the table. She began wolfing down her food, while John stood and put Rosie in the high chair. His mind wandered back to their conversation about the buddleia.

Controlled growth.

“That’s just part of having a baby,” John replied. “And I hardly get to see her during the week. I’ve already left for work when she wakes up and when I come home she’s already in bed.” John kissed Rosie’s temple and sat back down. “If I don’t spend time with her on her days off I won’t see her at all unless she’s asleep.”

He knew Mary was right, of course, as he tucked into the green curry she’d cooked. Babies did become too attached when their parents coddled them too much, but John knew he was doing the job of two. If Rosie didn’t receive love off him, she wouldn’t receive it off anyone.

Of course, there were others who cared for her. Harry and Clara doted on their little niece, and Mrs Hudson provided the grandmotherly figure where neither John’s nor Mary’s mother were available. But parental love? That was different. John knew that Rosie needed a constant presence, not just one who flitted in and out when she decided it was worth her time to be a mother. And he understood that sometimes people just weren’t suited to the parental role. Mary was apparently one of these people.

They ate the meal in silence, save for Rosie’s occasional gurgle and John’s quiet mumblings to her. Once they’d finished eating, Mary gathered up the plates and dumped them in the washing machine. John stood in an attempt to help.

“Fancy some dessert?” He tried, loading their glasses in the machine side by side.

“No, thank you, I’ve got pilates in half an hour,” Mary replied, turning her back to John and walking through to the lounge.

John blinked after her.

“Wait, Mary.” He followed her. Rosie would be safe in the high chair while John left her for a minute or two. “Is everything alright? You seem a bit…”

“Seem a bit what, John?” Mary snapped, still with her back to John as she bent down to pick up one of Rosie’s toys. John shrugged.

“Unhappy,” He said. “No, you seem really miserable. What’s wrong? Is there something going on? Because you know you can talk to me, right? Me and Sherlock, we can help.”

Mary shot him a glare, then looked at her watch.

“Would you look at that? Pilates is in fifteen minutes. Time flies. Must dash.” She pecked him quickly on the cheek, patted his shoulder, then left through the front door.

She left her Pilates bag at the foot of the stairs.

—

SH: ‘Doing anything? – SH’ (19:04)  
JW: ‘Stop signing your texts. No. Mary’s out and I’m watching the news with Rosie.’ (19:06)  
SH: ‘Babies don’t care about the news.’ (19:06)  
JW: ‘She likes the red and white colours and the music.’ (19:07)  
SH: ‘Strange child. I’ll have to introduce her to Mendelssohn-Hensel one day. So you’re not doing anything?’ (19:08)  
JW: ‘No.’ (19:08)  
SH: ‘I’m going out with Irene tonight. Not sure what to wear.’ (19:09)  
JW: ‘Out out?’ (19:10)  
SH: ‘What on Earth is that supposed to mean?’ (19:12)  
JW: ‘You’re going on a date?’ (19:13)  
SH: ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going clubbing. What should I wear?’ (19:14)  
JW: ‘Depends on the club and your intentions when you’re in the club. If you’re not planning on copping off with Irene can I assume you’re not planning on copping off with anyone?’ (19:16)  
SH: ‘We’ve never discussed my sex life before. Let’s not start now.’ (19:20)  
JW: ‘Just dancing then. Wear jeans, or something you feel comfortable moving in, and probably a shirt. Wear dark colours. Don’t wear those spandex trouser things in your wardrobe. You’ll send the wrong messages.’ (19:23)  
SH: ‘When did you become my go-to for fashion advice? Have a nice evening watching the news. Find out all about that breakfast shortage or whatever it is.’ (19:25)  
JW: ‘I know you don’t mean Brexit.’ (19:26)  
SH: ‘What’s that?’ (19:26)  
JW: ‘Have a nice night, Sherlock.’ (19:27)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you for reading this far if you have done! This chapter does contain BDSM-type smut, so if you’re not into that please feel free to skip it. The tags will have changed so please take another look over them. 
> 
> I’m going to try to update every Monday, but it may be a few days before or after depending on my calendar.
> 
> I really hope you like this chapter! Please let me know!

“Is this… is this country music?!” Sherlock shouted over Lil Nas X blaring from the speakers.

They stood at the base of the stone steps which marked the passageway into the club. From there they were able to look out onto the dance floor where strobe lighting flicked in time to the beat. It changed colour and as the music morphed into a house version of Taylor Swift’s latest song the room was filled with bright pinks and blues in a dizzying array of lights.

Sherlock suspected that building had once been a series of tunnels to do with the Thames and the dockyards, possibly a relic of a Victorian way of life with the yellow limestone walls. Sherlock squinted at the ceiling, looking for any indication of what the building had once been, before bars had been shoved into every crevice and strangers kissed one another against curved walls.

However, Sherlock had also had several shots and two glasses of champagne in the limousine and while he was indeed fascinated by the history of the building, the only words coming to mind were: ‘bricks’, ‘tunnel’, and ‘What on Earth is that form of kissing?’

Irene stood next to him. She wore a tight black dress which, while entirely impractical for dancing, glistened in the strobe lights and turned the heads of many people. The dress clung to her curves and her blood red lipstick warned everyone she was a force to be reckoned with. Sherlock, on the other hand, was wearing a pair of tight black skinny jeans, not dissimilar from the ones John had told him not to wear, a pair of converse he’d dug out from the back of his wardrobe, and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Together, though Sherlock was considerably more casual in his attire, they were two individuals who dominated the club and received automatic VIP privileges for simply gracing the venue with their presence.

Sherlock’s attention was caught by a passing drag queen, who wore sea blue seven-inch heels, a long, billowy aqua scarf and a glittery purple bra. She was flanked by men and women who seemed tiny in comparison, as the drag queen herself was easily six foot four before the heels.

Sherlock bounded over to introduce himself, the alcohol doing wonders with his ability to socialise. Irene cursed quietly and darted after him.

“Excuse me,” he shouted. “What pronouns do you prefer?”

“She, darling,” the drag queen replied, smiling warmly. Sherlock noted that she’d managed to create fish scales across her cheeks with various purples and greens, and grinned even more.

Sherlock had never been one for painting; the closest he came to art were the anatomical sketches of bees he had dotted around his bedroom. But Rosie’s first birthday was coming up and, wanting to be helpful, Sherlock had volunteered himself for face-painting, make-up, and dress-up duty for Rosie’s older friends.

“Thanks!” Sherlock said cheerily. “I wanted to tell my friend that I liked your make-up, but I didn’t want to accidentally offend you with the wrong pronoun even if you couldn’t hear-“

Irene grabbed Sherlock’s hand.

“He’s drunk,” she said apologetically, then steered Sherlock off towards the bar. “God, you really can’t handle your drink,” she mumbled, ordering two double vodkas and coke.

“No,” Sherlock corrected her. “I just didn’t want to offend her, that’s all.”

Irene smiled but rolled her eyes.

“Sometimes I forget how sweet you can be.”

“It’s not sweet. It’s common decency.”

“You’re going to give me a cavity.”

The barman looked to Sherlock for payment, but Irene pulled a credit card from her bra and held it against the reader, and then kissed Sherlock’s cheek.

“Don’t do anything stupid tonight,” she said, her lips against Sherlock’s ear. He crouched slightly to help her out. “Have a good time, but give me your phone. We can’t have you drunk texting John. Not after the last time.”

The night soon descended into chaos. Irene was sitting in a booth, playing with a girl’s hair while the girl gushed excitedly about her hopes and dreams. Irene listened with benign interest while she kept a watchful eye over Sherlock, who was dancing in the centre of the room.

The girl noticed Irene’s wandering gaze.

“You two together?” She asked over the thumping music. Irene laughed.

“No. He’s just going through something,” she answered plainly, smiling as the red lights illuminated the girl’s face. Fake smoke billowed across the dance-floor, and Irene chuckled quietly as she watched Sherlock launch into an animated explanation of how fake smoke is generated and how it’s really nothing like real smoke. The man Sherlock had been dancing with seemed a little confused by the conversation.

The girl pursed her lips together and looked over at Sherlock, who, as the man he’d been dancing with walked away amid Sherlock’s excited explanation, had joined another group of strangers to dance.

“What sort of stuff?” The girl asked.

The girl’s hair looked almost white in the strobe lighting, with a smattering of freckles which Irene found inexplicably cute. Obviously middle class with a possible leaning towards upper class, judging by her smooth, classical accent, the girl had all the markings of a well-bred, well-educated, pony club type.

Irene straightened slightly, tucking the girl’s hair behind her ear.

She was in too deep to ask the girl what her name was again.

“His best friend, and deep crush, has strenuously denied he has an attraction to Sherlock in any way. They’ve known each other for oh, going on ten years? Something like that, but it was before I knew him.” Irene sipped her vodka and coke.“Now, I hate to presume these things,” she continued, knowing she had the girl’s rapt interest, “but you should have seen them together. Have you ever met a man who tries to hide who he is? It’s almost like…”

“He’s scared of coming out?” The girl tried.

“No, no I think it’s more than that. He doesn’t have any parents to be disappointed in him, and his sister is married to a woman. John is accepting, and has no one in his life who will judge him for his sexuality if that’s what he’s worried about.

“I think,” Irene sighed, “I think he’s scared of himself.”

The girl didn’t look happy at that. On the contrary, her brows furrowed and she swigged her fruity cider.

“So, what you’re saying is that he’s a homophobic homosexual?” She asked after swallowing her drink, unimpressed. “Like, internalised homophobia with a hint of self-loathing? So many people are like that. It’s like, if you can’t be true to yourself, who can you be true to?” She paused. “But then again, if Sherlock knows John’s thoughts on the matter then why does he keep pursuing him? Leave him alone,” she set her glass down. “Otherwise John’ll be even more scared to come out and they’ll both be miserable. Is Sherlock going for anyone else? Like, looking at someone else?”

Irene was surprised. She hadn’t expected the girl who practically purred under her gentle head massage to have such a broad grasp on what was apparently a tricky situation. Irene’s lip quirked.

“You can’t be happy if you keep looking for the vortex to an alternate reality,” the girl added. “Because then you’re too focused on the fiction instead of the truth, like in Back to the Future and all that alternative timeline shit. That’s what my dad always says, anyway, whenever me and my brother like, complain about stuff.”

Irene chuckled.

“John’s married to a woman, and has just had a baby with her. The woman is a psychopath, and I think, for all his experience in dangerous situations, John is scared of her.”

“Domestic abuse? Physical?”

“Psychological, maybe,” Irene said. “And Sherlock, well, Sherlock hasn’t really been good to John over the years. Faked his death and all sorts.”

The girl, who had been about to swallow down another mouthful of cider spat it all out again across the small table. Two men kissing opposite her glared. She mumbled a hasty apology, before turning back to the conversation with Irene.

“He faked his death? Him?!” She asked incredulously, pointing a finger at Sherlock, who was now attempting to twerk against a man with bright green hair.

Sherlock was good at many things. Twerking wasn’t one of them.

“Yep. He’s actually a detective,” Irene chuckled. “And a good one. He can tell you everything about a person with just one look.”

The girl set her glass down and found her way beneath Irene’s hand again. Irene continued scratching her scalp gently.

“So why doesn’t he realise he needs to move on from John?”

Irene smiled sadly, watching Sherlock disappear into the crowd while holding the hand of a green-haired man wearing the most simplistic jeans and a shirt.

“Because it’s always been John.”

—

Rosie was asleep. John listened to her breathe through the baby monitor while he nursed a late night cup of tea. Mary still wasn’t back from wherever she’d gone (John was now certain she had lied when she said that she had to go to Pilates). He sighed as he checked his watch.

He hated going to bed without her. Not through any sentimental reason, or that he didn’t like sleeping alone, but because he felt that if he were to go to bed without waiting for Mary to return home it was another issue in their relationship to contend with. It would show that he didn’t care whether or not she was okay, or merely indicated that he was selfish to put his sleep-deprivation above his wife’s safety.

“That’s bullshit,” he thought to himself, flicking over the channels and settling on Question Time. “You’re jealous of her adventures. What are you now? An ornament.”

John’s eyes strayed away from the television and towards the framed wedding photo perched on the top shelf of the bookcase. His and Mary’s beaming faces looked down at him, reminding him that he ought to be grateful. They’d created this and now John was miserable.

He’d been so happy to be married.

He thought about Sherlock in the club. A part of him was hoping for another drunken text conversation with Sherlock, but that wouldn’t do well for either of them. Not after last time.

It was strange to consider, Sherlock copping off with strangers and Sherlock drowning in shots. John knew that Irene would take care of Sherlock, but that was a difficult task with Sherlock’s general lack of self-preservation even when sober.

“He’s fine”, John told himself angrily as he swigged down the rest of his tea. “He’s a grown man. He’s not going to do anything too stupid.”

Then another, nasty little voice chimed in from a dark, secluded corner of his brain. The same as before but with more malice: “How much would you give to be there with him right now? In a nice dark corner… One if those stupid mistakes you’re so worried about him making…”

John shook himself. It wasn’t good to have these thoughts about Sherlock. Not now, not ever. He was a married man with a wonderful wife and a beautiful daughter. He wasn’t going to let himself think about Sherlock while his wife was still at large.

The sound of John’s phone ringing came as a blessed relief.

“Doctor Watson speaking.”

“Hi, John,” said a kindly, slightly tired voice John recognised as the woman who worked on the late night reception shift at the Accident and Emergency Department.

Since having Rosie, John’s involvement in cases with Sherlock had plummeted. He couldn’t very well take Rosie to a suspected homicide, but he still needed the adrenaline a high-intensity job presented. So, he’d ditched the GP he had been working in A&E. The constant rush of people who all needed help gave John the adrenaline rush he needed. More or less.

“Hi Cindy,” John replied, leaning back in his chair. “Everything okay?”

Cindy sighed heavily.

“Well, no, but also yes. It’s complicated. You know that cardiologist? The one who gave me all that shit the other day for bringing him the wrong coffee?”

John smiled. Cindy was sixty-five, had eight grandchildren, and a bad knee. She’d been working at the hospital since the age of sixteen, and was full of stories about how the hospital used to be and who used to work there. She always had the gossip of the department right at her fingertips.

John couldn’t help but like her, and her sharp wit.

“Yeah, I know the one. With the eyebrows?”

“That’s the chap. Anyway, he’s just been brought in. Had to process him as the paramedics whisked him through.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Heart attack.”

John paused. “Bloody hell. Is he dead?”

“Yep. Time of death… 23:46,” Cindy said. “Mad, isn’t it? A cardiologist who dies of a heart attack…”

“Do you know what caused it?” John asked.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Cindy sighed. “Wish I knew. Honestly, John, I probably shouldn’t say it…”

“But you’re going to anyway.”

“But I’m going to anyway… I’m glad the bastard is dead. I haven’t been this happy since old Maggie Thatcher died, honestly! This is the best day of my life, and I have three children and eight grandchildren! Anyway, I just thought I’d let you know the good news. See you when you’re next in work, and give little Rosie a squeeze for me, won’t you? Bye, goodbye John, bye.”

Cindy rang off, leaving John to contemplate the news of his colleague’s death in the silence of his dark flat.

Dr Blumstein was a horrible little man. There was no arguing that.

John recalled his first shift with the newly deceased. It had been a night shift, 4am, and the hospital was at its breaking point. A bank holiday weekend meant that there was no shortage of party-goers falling through the double doors with various broken bones, cuts, and whatever else had befallen them. The drunken and disorderly always made for interesting patients.

John sipped his tea and flicked the channel over.

Dr Blumstein had marched into the A&E department shouting about how much better the country would be with Nigel Farage at the helm. Cindy had asked him to quieten down (“this is a hospital, not Question Time! They’re in Uttoxeter this week, bugger off there instead”) But Blumstein had kept badgering on about how much the Tories had fucked the NHS over and how Labour were as much use as a log was to put out a fire.

John had seen then that the doctor was as high as a kite, and had had to remove him from the scene in a less than dignified way. It was a joke that neither of them had been fired, or at least disciplined in the scrap that followed. But as Blumstein had said, the NHS had been fucked over and needed all the staff available.

John heard the click of the front door, then a quiet thud as Mary closed it behind her. She came bustling into the lounge.

“I’ve just heard about Dr Blumstein,” Mary said, setting her bag down on the arm chair and ducked down to kiss John. John kissed her back, surprised by the sudden display of warmth from his wife. “Awful, isn’t it? Cindy just called.”

John allowed himself a small chuckle.

“Is Cindy telling everyone?”

“Apparently, yeah,” Mary laughed, sitting down next to John and leaning in for a cuddle. She nodded towards the baby monitor as John wrapped an arm around her. “She asleep?”

“Yeah, took a while for her to get off, not even when…”

“Oh god, you didn’t try singing that bloody –“

“My daughter is going to listen to and love David Bowie,” John cut in, grinning. “And she loves Magic Dance. It’s just not a sleepy song, that’s all.”

Mary rolled her eyes and chuckled as John moved in for a kiss.

They had sex on the sofa that night. Mary didn’t tell John where she’d been all evening, and John didn’t ask her. Both of them went to bed in the early hours with Magic Dance going around their heads, each silently celebrating the death of Dr Blumstein.

— 

Both drunk and high on the rush sex promised to provide, Sherlock had told the green-haired man that he was more than happy to give up everything to him for a few hours. He wasn’t surprised when the man showed Sherlock his collection of bondage equipment sitting in the bottom of his bedside drawer, beneath the raunchy magazines. It was the primary reason Sherlock had approached him on the dance floor. He’d already known what he was looking for.

“Want to give them a go, sweetie?” The man had asked, his hand stroking and grabbing at Sherlock’s jean clad arse. He was a bit rough, his fingers digging in to the point that Sherlock expected bruises by the morning.

Sherlock shrugged, pushing back against the hand that groped him.

“What makes you think I haven’t tried these things before?” Sherlock had replied, before turning and smashing his lips against the green-haired man’s.

It was an unceremonious, messy affair.

When Sherlock closed his eyes, the world spun. So when the green-haired man tied the blindfold around the back of Sherlock’s head and plunged him into darkness, Sherlock could only imagine that the mattress he was man handled onto was the top of a cloud which bobbed gently on the wind. The green-haired man coaxed Sherlock’s legs apart and flattened his palm against Sherlock’s growing bulge. It was only meant to taunt, and Sherlock soon found himself straining upward, craving more and making obscene noises in the process. He didn’t care. It’s what he needed.

The green-haired man pressed the tip of his cock against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock could already taste the tang of precome and he sucked the tip gently, until the green-haired man pushed in further and Sherlock found himself gagging on what he could only imagine was the largest cock in all of London. It blocked his airways, and Sherlock clawed for desperate breath as the green-haired man unloaded down Sherlock’s throat.

Pulling out, no time was wasted as three fingers worked their way into Sherlock’s mouth and forced it open. The ring-gag was secured inside, sat neatly in a perfect O behind Sherlock’s teeth which rendered closing his mouth impossible. It was a mean move, Sherlock thought, meant only for the green-haired man’s pleasure, especially as the man had come mere seconds ago. Sherlock couldn’t imagine the man’s refectory period was that good.

“Look at you,” the green-haired man crooned, running his hand through Sherlock’s curls. “Look at you. The little whore I found on the dance floor.”

Sherlock blushed furiously at being addressed in such a manner. He couldn’t even retaliate with the ring gag stretching his mouth wide.

“You’re going to be my good little whore tonight, aren’t you? Nod for me, show me that you understand.”

Sherlock nodded, and suddenly he was no longer on a cloud but floating on the calm waves of the warm Mediterranean Sea. He closed his eyes beneath the blindfold, feeling so relaxed in his new predicament he almost forgot to think about John.

Almost.

Sherlock was moved to lie face down, his penis trapped between the duvet and his stomach. The green-haired man spread Sherlock’s legs and then buckled two leather cuffs around each ankle. A metal spreader bar was then clipped to each leather strap, and the leather strap was then tied to the backboard of the bed.

“You really were a nice little dirty surprise for me, weren’t you? Yeah, I saw the outline of that plug buried deep in your tight little arse…” The green-haired man traced his finger around the base of the plug, and copious amounts of drool poured from Sherlock’s mouth, brought down by both gravity and the pathetic whimper which managed to escape. The green-haired man laughed. “You’re so cute. On your knees.”

With some effort Sherlock managed to push his bum into the air, keeping his shoulders flat against the bed. His balls hung low between his legs, his cock a strong semi. The green-haired man tutted as he cupped both of Sherlock’s balls in one hand.

“Pretty little things, aren’t they?” He began massaging them gently and Sherlock’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. “I want to decorate them, have them on display at all times…”

Visions of Sherlock on his hands and knees, crawling around the floor with his legs spread wide blurred both of their visions for a few moments. Sherlock blushed furiously, and his still-hardening cock didn’t go unnoticed.

“Oh, Sherlock. What fun I’m going to have with you.”

—

“Please, Mr Holmes,” the girl called from the corner of the street, and Sherlock paused in opening the front door. He could smell the fresh batches of coffee being made in Speedy’s, and it did nothing to help his nausea. The girl caught up with him.

She was a plain girl by all means. Her pale, almost translucent skin and brilliantly blonde bleached hair tied back in a black scrunchy made her skin appear to glow in the early morning sunshine, much like a lone daisy in a field of green. She wore a white turtleneck jumper beneath black denim dungarees, and shoes with thick black soles which made her, Sherlock estimated, two inches taller than she actually was. A signet ring hung on a dainty gold chain around her neck, along with another necklace with a small grey pebble pendant which hung just beneath the ring.

Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. It didn’t take much for Sherlock to realise that she’d been crying all morning.

“Mr Holmes, my name is Beatrix Blumstein.” The girl offered her hand for Sherlock to shake.

It was a cold Wednesday morning, the kind where the sky was blue but the sun remained hidden by an unmoving cloud, casting London into the depths of an inescapable shadow.

Sherlock stepped aside so that she could enter, and as she did so she clutched her baby blue pea coat in her hands.

“I used to love reading Doctor Watson’s blogs,” she blurted out, her pale cheeks now a dark crimson. “I cried so much when you died.”

“Very touching,” Sherlock replied curtly, then winced. His voice echoed around his head like a drum in a cave. Beatrix looked mortified.

“Sorry!” She gasped. “Sorry! I don’t know why I said that. Oh, god.” Tears welled up in her already bloodshot eyes and she covered her hand over her mouth. She shook her head, battling an internal struggle.

“Let me get you some tea,” Sherlock said quietly, walking off to the kitchen while Beatrix followed him. He left her in the lounge.

In the kitchen he popped a few ibuprofen in his mouth and drank a pint of water, sloshing it down his chin and the front of his shirt. As he stood there, with water drenching the front of his shirt, Sherlock realised that he had just greeted a potential new client while wearing the clothes from the night before. He longed to have a shower not only to rid himself of the horrendous body-odour he undoubtedly had but also to rid himself of the green-haired man he’d ended up sharing a bed with. 

Uninspiring, mindless sex had been just what the doctor ordered. But it didn’t make Sherlock feel any better about having actually had it. The bruises blossoming across his body, his neck, lips, and thighs were a sore but secure reminder that the green-haired man wanted to see him again.

He flicked the kettle on.

When Sherlock went back to the lounge, Beatrix was dabbing at her eyes with a very torn, well-used tissue and sitting in John’s chair.

Sherlock was well-accustomed to crying clients and normally had a box of tissues on stand-by, so he passed them over silently.

Beatrix thanked him with a small nod.

A few seconds passed while Sherlock took his seat opposite her, before Beatrix began to talk.

“My father was the leading cardiologist at…”

“St Bart’s Hospital,” Sherlock finished for her. Beatrix nodded. “Tragic though his death was, you father died naturally. He was an ageing man, he used to smoke as well as other activities deemed strenuous on the heart.” He thought it uncouth to say: ‘I caught him snorting prime crack cocaine in the toilet to get him through his shift after John had called me in to help out.’

“You don’t understand,” Beatrix interrupted, shaking her head. “You don’t know everything.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Where’s your brother?” He asked.

“Staying with family.” Beatrix wiped her eyes. “Please. I have no where else to turn.”

“I’m sorry, Beatrix,” Sherlock said quietly, “but sometimes people die and it’s horrible. We start to come up with excuses for the methods in which they died…”

“Mr Holmes,” Beatrix put-in sharply. “I know it sounds ludicrous, but my father was murdered. Call it… call it a woman’s intuition.”

Sherlock felt physically repulsed by the phrase. Not for any reason other than the fact that he was a hard-working, logic holding detective. Intuition, while possibly leading somewhere, was often overwrought with scepticism and bias. Clients who presented theories to Sherlock based on intuition were often the most troubling to deal with, because they believed their explanation to be concrete and merely wanted Sherlock to provide facts supporting them.

“My father upset a lot of people in his lifetime, including my mother.”

“You think your mother killed him?”

“Well, seeing as she’s been dead for five years, that would be a bit difficult.”

Beatrix smiled, happy to get a one-up on the detective. Sherlock allowed her a moment of pride.

“They met at University,” she said, “dad was the most stereotypical medical student. Middle-class background, partying and getting drunk whenever possible. They tried to kick him out at one point.”

“What for?”

“No idea. Neither him nor mum, nor Grandma or Gramps would tell me. It was probably nothing. You know how boys are,” she sighed as she reminisced. “He rubbed people up the wrong way. While Barclay and I were growing up…”

“Barclay? Like the bank?”

“That’s Barclay’s,” Beatrix corrected. “But yes, we used to call him Lloyds. He hated it.”

“I can imagine.”

Beatrix hummed as she pondered the childish bickering of siblings.

“Barclay and I had several nannies over the course of twelve years. They always left, and I refuse to believe that was because Barclay and myself were such naughty children. We were a delight! Anyway…” she looked around, relaxing into her surroundings. “The last one, when we were more grown-up to understand, we heard mum and dad screaming at one another about Miss George. That was her name. She had left earlier that day and didn’t tell us why. Mum accused dad of cheating but dad denied it. My father was many things but he was not an adulterer, Mr Holmes! The nerve of my own mother!” Beatrix huffed.

Sherlock remained silent, and Beatrix continued.

“Anyway, two days ago I received this message.”

Beatrix held up her phone to show Sherlock an text message sent from an unknown number.

 

DRPPFLJLWWVIKYVTFEJVHLVETVJFWYZJRTKZFEJ

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he read it.

“I’ve seen more complicated codes,” Sherlock said eventually, after scribbling the contents of the text down on some paper. “Very simplistic. The sender wrote out the alphabet and shifted each letter over by nine places in the alphabet, see?” He showed Beatrix his scrawling handwriting.

“The D is a M. The R is an A, and so it continues. The best method of solving these problems is to identify which letter occurs the most. In this case it was a tie between J and V, meaning that either one of these letters is likely to be E, as the E occurs most often in the English language. Now the next step –“

“Mr Holmes,” interrupted Beatrix, “If its all the same to you, I’d like to know what that text says.”

“Oh, right.” Sherlock cleared his throat as he read aloud: “‘May you suffer the consequences of his actions.’”

Beatrix frowned. “What on earth does that mean?” She asked, blinking confusedly at the text message.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. His head was swimming, and his throat was perched under consuming too much alcohol. His jaw ached from having the gag in for too long, and he winced as a he readjusted himself on his seat, landing squarely on a blossoming bruise on his bum cheek. 

“Go to your relatives. I’ll be in touch soon.”

Beatrix nodded and gathered her coat. She’d stopped crying at the deciphering of the code, and was now hastily leaving. However, she stopped in the doorway.

“Three raw eggs,” she said, turning back to look at him, “and a black coffee. Best hangover cure there is.”

Sherlock smiled slightly and Beatrix scurried away.

He texted John.

—

John’s phone vibrated on the bench, but he missed it over Rosie’s incessant babbling. He began drying her off with a towel, as steam oozed out of the nearby sauna. It was hot, sticky, and damp, and not at all the right environment to attempt to get Rosie out of a wet swimming costume and into something comfortable and dry.

He dropped her sock in a puddle.

“Is that right?” John asked, laying Rosie down on the bench and starting to dress her. “Oh, I see…”

Every Wednesday morning John took Rosie swimming. Their local pool ran a Mummy and Baby yoga session, and while John wasn’t a mummy they hadn’t discouraged John when he phoned to enquire.

Rosie stared up at John, dissatisfied with the answers she was receiving. She continued babbling again.

The phone vibrated a second time, and John squinted at the screen.

SH: ‘I have a case.’ (10:53)  
SH: ‘Come to Baker Street. Bring Rosie. I have spare socks for her.’ (10:55)

John sighed and tapped out a quick reply.

JW: ‘You can’t know that I dropped Rosie’s sock’ (10:56)  
SH: ‘You drop at least one of her socks every week. Come to Baker Street.’ (10:56)  
JW: ‘I’m busy.’ (10:57)  
SH: ‘Come to Baker Street, bring Rosie. You’ll want to be in on this. Does the name Dr Blumstein ring any bells?’ (10:58)  
JW: ‘I’ll be half an hour. You’d better have socks.’ (11:01)

“Come on, Rosie,” John said, heaving her bag over his shoulder and scooping her up once she was dressed. “We’re going to see your Uncle Sherlock.”

Rosie grinned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Me again. As ever, this fic is dedicated to Lisa.
> 
> Just so you’re aware there are more BDSMy dealings in this chapter, so just a heads up if you’re not into that. You can easily skip it.
> 
> If you have any criticisms/comments/whatever, please let me know! It all helps! 
> 
> Thank you,
> 
> indigosoacehopper x

“Keep the change,” John mumbled to the cab driver as he shoved a wad of notes into his outstretched hand.

“Cheers. Want a hand getting out with the baby?”

“No, ta. I’ll manage.”

“Alright, then.”

The cab driver pulled away and John was left standing on the pavement, looking up at the familiar floor to ceiling length windows. The wrought iron railings needed a new coat of paint, and the windows were speckled with fresh flecks of rain. Chatter spilled out of Speedy’s next door, and John caught a whiff of fresh coffee. He smiled to himself. They rarely visited 221B anymore; Mary always pulled a face at the idea and John felt it against his husband duty to disagree. Which is why he disagreed on the regular.

“Where are you going?” Mary had asked one afternoon as she lounged in the middle of the garden, soaking up the afternoon sun.

“To see Sherlock.”

“But you’re on Rosie duty. I’m going out for drinks with the girls.” Mary didn’t look at him while she spoke, face tilted towards the sunshine.

“I know. Rosie’s coming with me. Sherlock’s actually getting quite good with keeping chemicals out of the way of her, and Rosie loves him to pieces. He’s good with her,” John said, smiling at the memory of Sherlock feeding Rosie after she’d started crying while John was on toilet, and Sherlock setting up a cot in John’s old bedroom so that Rosie could nap when John brought her over. He’d received several stressed texts about IKEA’s poorly worded instructions, and was later horrified to find that Sherlock had given up and paid one of his homeless network to assemble the cot for him. Still, the sentiment was there. “And Mrs Hudson dotes on her.”

Despite the heat of the day, Mary’s expression was cold. “No, John. I don’t want Rosie going to Sherlock’s.”

“Sherlock’s,” John had thought bitterly to himself. It always felt strange, that. Referring to Baker Street as Sherlock’s home as opposed to their’s. But then, he supposed, he didn’t live there any more. He lived on Elsenham Street and it’s glorious, squashed suburbia, overlooking the District line. Baker Street wasn’t his home anymore.

“He’s Rosie’s godfather,” John reminded her patiently. “And he does care about his goddaughter enough to not leave flesh-eating bacteria around for her to eat.”

Mary sighed heavily, squinting at John as she lifted her sunglasses to see John properly. Rosie was in his arms again, sleeping quietly and unaware of her parent’s bickering. John rocked her gently.

“Fine. Take her to Sherlock.” She picked up a magazine and began rifling through it. “But you’re sleeping on the sofa tonight. And stop coddling her! I don’t want to have this discussion again. She’ll become one of those horrid, crying kids at the surgery.”

She stopped on an Agony Aunt page and began reading. John rolled his eyes and went back inside the house.

John sighed quietly as he reminisced. He hovered on the doorstep for a few more seconds, before pulling himself together and pushing his key into the lock.

When had his relationship with his wife turned into one of hatred as opposed to love? He supposed, now that he considered it properly, he’d fallen out of love with his wife in Leinster Gardens, when she was forced into admitting putting a bullet in his best friend.

“How good a shot are you?”

“How badly do you want to find out?”

The willingness to do it again. That was probably what had finally done it for him.

Despite Sherlock’s quibbles about surgery, John knew that the intent to harm had been there. It was failed murder, not a minor inconvenience. John was a doctor, he knew what surgery looked like and it was not putting a bullet in somebody’s chest. Mary had shot Sherlock, and John could never forgive her for that.

A wave of nausea surged through him at the memory. John held Rosie close to his chest, staring blankly at the wooden door. John could feel his blood pounding in his ears.

“Why on Earth am I still with her?” John asked himself, staring at the familiar gold numbers. “You don’t love her. She just filled that hole after Sherl-“

He cut himself off. It didn’t bode well to think about.

Rosie gurgled in his arms, reaching for the knocker.

“Are you ready to see Uncle Sherlock?” John asked her, falling out of his trance and back into reality. Rosie smiled up at him and started to babble again. John chuckled and hummed to signify he was listening as he stepped over the threshold of 221. The bottom stair gate was open wide, but it brought a small smile to John’s face to see that Sherlock had at least kept it up despite the scarce visits.

There was another baby gate at the top of the stairs, and John clicked it shut once he’d passed through.

221B was humming with activity. John could hear the whir of Mrs Hudson’s hover downstairs and the voice of Jeremy Vine, who seemed to be becoming increasingly more annoyed at a caller to the radio station. John couldn’t make out the topic.

“Where’s my favourite Watson?” Sherlock asked, swooping down on them and stealing Rosie from John’s arms. Rosie squealed happily, always thrilled to see Sherlock. John chuckled and set her baby bag down on the on kitchen table. He flicked the kettle on. Force of habit told him to put some bread in the toaster, too, in case Sherlock had forgotten to eat again.

“Fun night?” John asked, noting the pain killers, pint of water and the broken egg shells on the kitchen counter. He turned to face Sherlock. “Bloody hell, did you get into a fight?”

Sherlock’s lips were speckled with purple, and his neck was stained with plump plum bruises. There was a small cut on his forehead, too, which John could see needed a good clean. It still had dirt around it.

“Something like that,” Sherlock answered, pulling faces at Rosie who giggled happily. “We need to talk about this case, John. I’ll leave Rosie with Mrs H. Can’t be doing with any distractions today and Mrs Hudson will be thrilled by the company.”

Before John could protest, Sherlock had rushed off downstairs with Rosie.

John sighed quietly to himself and poured steaming water into the mugs, his mind on Sherlock’s damaged body. He knew that Sherlock went clubbing the previous night, which would have been an entirely new concept to him if he hadn’t dragged Sherlock into several clubs while out on his stag party.

He should have known Irene wouldn’t have been able to take proper care of Sherlock, letting him get into fights. Had Irene just sat back and watched? Sherlock provoked enough people when he was sober, but drunk, people were more likely to throw punches in remark for a snide comment.

“You’re thinking,” Sherlock said, picking up his mug as he reentered. “It’s funny how you always make thinking look so painful. Come on, we have a murder to discuss.”

Sherlock’s eyes glinted over the rim of his mug and John couldn’t help but smile, only too happy be involved in a case with Sherlock.

—

Sherlock was aching. His lips were swollen from too-harsh kisses, possessive snogs, and more biting from his partner than he ever thought possible to experience in the bedroom. The room was thick with the salty scent of sex, and the will to sleep pounded at Sherlock’s brain for the first time in a very long while.

“Well,” the green-haired man massaged Sherlock’s arse as he straddled his back, Sherlock laying face down on the bed. “You were an unexpected treat.”

“Hm,” Sherlock agreed. “I needed that.”

The green-haired man smiled and ducked down. He kissed Sherlock’s arse, then bit it harshly. Sherlock yelped, and his sore cock twitched beneath him, trapped between his stomach and the cum-soaked duvet. It was becoming sticky and itchy as it dried, but the filth of it only made Sherlock more relaxed.

“Oh?” The man chuckled, going back to massaging Sherlock’s arse. “Stressed?”

“I don’t do stress,” Sherlock replied. His cheek was pressed against the pillow and he faced the bedside table. On it was a bottle of lube, a glass of water, and several classical books. “Stress is a distraction.”

“A distraction? From what?”

“Everything.”

“Was I a good enough distraction?” The man asked, easing Sherlock’s legs apart again. The smile was evident in his voice. Sherlock smiled, too.

“You were,” he said, and gasped quietly as he man licked a stripe along the inside of Sherlock’s arse cheek. Sherlock was tired, but he’d readily accept more.

“You weren’t too bad, either. I’ve never had head like that before.”

Sherlock smirked.

“Would you like it again?”

The man laughed. He climbed off Sherlock and lay down next to him. He smiled warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “In a minute,” he said, taking Sherlock’s wrist and checking it for damage again. Sherlock had insisted that he was fine, but the man was relentless in his safety checks. “I’m not as young as I once was.”

“Hm… I supposed 45 is a little old…” Sherlock grinned and received a light slap on his arse. The man laughed, though.

“So you know how old I am, but you can’t remember my name?” The man asked. Sherlock gaped slightly.

“I do…” he said, though it was a complete lie. He hadn’t heard the man say his name when he’d shouted it at Sherlock on the dance floor, and Sherlock didn’t care enough to attempt to find out.

“It’s Atticus,” The man told him, still smiling bemusedly. “And you’re Sherlock Holmes, the great detective.”

Sherlock didn’t know what his face contorted to, but given Atticus’ laugh he decided to stick with it.

“Yeah, I knew you the moment I saw you,” Atticus chuckled, reaching up and brushing a hand through Sherlock’s now-unruly curls. “I would recognise those cheekbones anywhere. Surprised you didn’t have your lacky with you, though. I thought you two were inseparable. What was his name again? Joe? Josh?”

“John,” Sherlock supplied. He felt his cheeks turn pink at the discussion of John in such a setting. God, John was about as vanilla as they came. Literally.

Atticus didn’t fail to notice the blush.

“Oh, that’s gorgeous. What was it, he’s brushed off your affections? Friend-zoned you?”

“Let’s not discuss him,” Sherlock replied quickly.

Atticus smirked, a knowing glint in his eye but Sherlock was thankful for the termination of the topic.

“I think I’ll take that blow job, now.”

Sherlock grinned and shuffled down.

—

“Dr Blumstein “ Sherlock began, pointing to a picture of a balding man which he’d pinned to the wall behind the sofa. “His daughter, Beatrix,” he pointed at another photograph of a young girl smiling into the camera for a selfie, “approached me earlier today with a code which had been sent to her days before her father’s death.”

John nodded slowly, frowning at the photograph of Beatrix. She was a pretty girl, her platinum blonde hair drawn up into two buns.

Sherlock and John stood next to each other, the coffee table pushed to one side to allow better access to the wall.

“What was the code?” John asked.

“DRPPFLJL-“

“What the code meant, Sherlock.”

“Oh. ‘May you suffer the consequences of his actions’.”

John’s frown deepened. “Nice. Friendly. And we’re taking this is a threat regarding Doctor Blumstein?” He asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I’ve been on all of Beatrix’s social media,” he said, picking up his laptop. “There are no causes for major concern. No signs of cyber bullying of any form…”

“Is it very likely that Blumstein’s daughter would be bullied?” John asked. “She looks normal enough. And she’s rich, that’s got to help.”

Sherlock shot a careful glance at him. “Anyone can be bullied, John, just as anyone can be a bully, though they’re often more rare. She’s rich, and incredibly sure of herself because of it. All it would take would be one misguided, negative comment from her to be perceived as her being a bully,” he said, finding the website he wanted and showing his laptop screen to John.

“Did Lestrade tell you off again for bullying the forensics team?” John asked, smirking slightly.

“Maybe,” Sherlock admitted. “But that’s not the point I’m trying to make here.”

John squinted at the laptop screen. It was a messenger website, where people posted images and videos, but mostly chatted privately to their friends. John had heard about it in the news, though he’d never felt the impulse to create an account for himself. The website was called Bean.com, and it had recently been in the news for the trend in the upsurge of the police’s cyber-bullying related cases.

It was a trendy platform, the kind that lured young teenagers in through bright colour schemes and GIFs.

Sherlock honed in on a post from a month prior. He clicked on it and held the screen up for John to see.

John squinted at the screen.

‘Pool party at my place! Come along! BYOB!’ It read.

“That’s hardly bullying, Sherlock,” John said once he’d read it. He skimmed across the ensuing emojis, too, then decided they weren’t worth his time. “In fact, does throwing a party even mean bullying? I can’t keep up anymore. When I was a kid bullying didn’t mean anything, it was a part of growing up. Character building, Mum always said.”

Sherlock ignored him, but John saw a vague flicker of something akin to annoyance flash across Sherlock’s face as he wheeled around and picked up a second laptop. He thrust it into John’s arms.

“We need to find the person who Beatrice knows personally from a forcibly attended place, like school or university, who has the fewest followers on Bean.com,” Sherlock said.

John did as he was asked, without questioning why. To question would be futile, and he probably wouldn’t understand it anyway.

—

They had found a friend from Beatrice’s sixth-form. It was a posh, well-to-do, give-us-money-and-we’ll-ignore-the-grades sixth-form. Beatrice had achieved good results there, so good in fact that she was offered a place at University College London to study medicine.

“Like father like daughter,” John had said when he’d realised Beatrice was working with the aim of becoming a doctor.

The person with the least followers was a girl called Georgina, who had entered the sixth-form after winning a scholarship. If John thought Beatrice’s grades were good, Georgina’s were spectacular. She was currently enrolled at the University of Cambridge, studying architecture.

“She went into the system at six,” Sherlock said, “moved between foster homes until she found a permanent home at fifteen. Won the scholarship at sixteen… ran away from home... Reported sleeping rough, still managed to attend classes. A teacher took her in when she realised what was happening.”

“That was good of the teacher.”

Sherlock either didn’t hear him or chose not to reply.

“We’ll head to Cambridge tomorrow,” he said, typing something on his phone. “The train leaves Kings Cross at 9:42am. I trust you’ll meet me there. I can get into the university as an alumni. I still have a pass for the library.”

“You went to Cambridge?” John asked, surprised, then remembered quickly: “I’m at the surgery tomorrow. I can’t go with Cambridge.”

“Don’t go to work.”

“Sherlock, I need to go to work.”

“Dull.”

Sherlock flopped down into his black arm chair and pursed his lips. A few buttons of his shirt were loose, and his red dressing gown draped around him like a cape. John wondered if Sherlock knew he looked like suave superhero. A battered and bruised suave superhero.

“It’s not that I don’t want to come.”

“So come.”

“Sherlock, it’s not that easy.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock huffed. “Why do you suddenly care so much about that god awful surgery? If you need money I’ll be more than happy to gather some funds from Mycroft’s-“

“I don’t want Mycroft’s money,” John snapped. “And I’m going home. Rosie should have been in bed four hours ago and I can’t dump her on Mrs Hudson all night.”

John grabbed his coat and Rosie’s baby-bag.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked at the now empty doorway, listening to John’s footsteps descend the stairs. He turned to his skull on the mantlepiece.

“Well he’s in rather a bad mood.”

The skull remained silent.

“I know,” Sherlock agreed. “I know.”

 

—

They decided to keep it physical. Sherlock had no interest in romantic attachments, and Atticus said that he liked his independence in the dating field too much to try with a man who clearly wasn’t interested. Sherlock knew that he wasn’t the only one who Atticus had that arrangement with, but he didn’t mind.

Sherlock and Atticus didn’t discuss their personal lives. Atticus worked in the pharmaceutical industry; a chemist. Sherlock had found that interesting until he’d come to realise that Atticus interests in chemicals began and stopped at saving lives.

They texted one another regularly enough.

A: Busy tonight? (19:23)  
SH: Yes. – SH (19:34)  
A: Pity. I had a delivery today.   
(Attachment: a picture of some black, jute rope) (19:35)  
SH: I’ll be there at 11:45. – SH (19:49)

That night Sherlock found himself on all fours in the middle of Atticus’ lounge. It was a nice room, with charcoal oak floor boards and a white, fluffy rug which Sherlock immediately identified as being Icelandic sheep wool. The walls were white, and although there was a mirror above the mantelpiece, they were bare save for a light switch. Above Sherlock hung a large crystal chandelier.

Sherlock hadn’t told John where he was going that night, and indeed, John’s presence had momentarily wiped all thoughts of Atticus from Sherlock’s mind. He’d had fun the previous evening, but it was nothing like working on a case with John.

But John had other commitments now. He couldn’t prioritise cases like he used to. He couldn’t afford to fall behind on the mortgage or Rosie’s babysitting fees as he could when it was just him and Sherlock.

At least with Atticus, Sherlock could forget about John for a while. Sex took him out of his mind palace and back to his transport, where he could physically feel something that wasn’t anything to do with John.

He recognised that it wasn’t a healthy mindset. And he knew that he really ought to stay away from Atticus. But where was the fun in that?

Sherlock looked around the room, trying not to think about John while he was on his knees in a sex addict’s expensive lounge. He was trying to get John out of his head, after all. He was pained to note that there was no dust in the room. Atticus clearly had a cleaner who popped in most days. Sherlock wondered whether she had to clean up Atticus’ messier scenes, too.

Atticus ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock pushed up into it, craving the contact. Anything to push John’s stupid face and his stupid marriage out of his head for a bit.

“I think you may be my prettiest sub,” Atticus hummed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Who said I was a submissive?” He asked, seeking out Atticus’s hand.

“You did,” Atticus replied, smiling. “The first night we met. Now, let’s do this properly, shall we?”

Sherlock looked up at Atticus, frowning. 

“I thought we were doing this properly?” He asked, watching as Atticus crossed the room to the mantlepiece and took something from it. 

Sherlock hadn’t cared when Atticus told him to strip, and he didn’t care when he was told to get on all fours. He was on the floor often enough as it was, and he didn’t suppose being naked would made a huge amount of difference. He certainly wasn’t embarrassed, at any rate.  
Atticus’ eyes sparkled as he held up a thick black leather collar. Sherlock’s knees went weak.

“I am not wearing that,” he said, choking on his words slightly as a blush spread across his cheeks. He made an attempt to stand, but Atticus was on him in a flash, his foot pressing down on Sherlock’s back and pinning him against the wooden floorboards.

Sherlock groaned.

“Sherlock, this won’t work unless you do as I require of you,” Atticus chastised. “Do you want to be fucked?”

Sherlock huffed, his cheek pressed against the floorboards. “Yes.”

“Do you want to come?”

“Yes.”

“Then stop being a brat and let me put the collar on. It’s going on whether you want it to or not.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded, signalling for Atticus to go ahead. They had a safeword. They had plenty of safewords. Sherlock knew his ego could handle wearing a collar for a few short hours.

Atticus straddled Sherlock’s back, sitting very gently on it, and using Sherlock’s hair he tugged Sherlock’s head up. With his free hand he wrapped the collar around the front of Sherlock’s neck, gently lowered Sherlock’s head down, then buckled it securely at the back. Sherlock’s cheeks were now a dark crimson. His stomach lurched as he realised that his cock was slowly hardening beneath him. Another click informed Sherlock that a leash had been clipped to the back of the collar.

“Really!” Sherlock began to protest, and he sat up the moment Atticus stood and reached around to grab the leash hanging limply down his back.

“You’re being a brat, Sherlock,” Atticus warned. “But oh, my, someone seems to be enjoying it.” Atticus smirked at Sherlock’s now erect penis and Sherlock groaned at the humiliation of it, still trying to grab onto the leash. Atticus grabbed the leash and moved around to Sherlock’s front. 

Atticus smirked down at the detective, the leash in one hand, his thick cock in the other. Sherlock hasn’t realised Atticus had taken it out, but his mouth filled with saliva as Atticus brushed the tip against Sherlock’s lips.

“Look at you,” Atticus purred, pushing the head of his penis into Sherlock’s waiting mouth with little effort. He lowered the leash and ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, his rough fingers catching occasionally on the curls. “I knew the collar would be good for you.”

Sherlock swallowed Atticus down a bit further, and his grip on Sherlock’s hair tightened, earning him a soft moan from Sherlock. Atticus closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing as Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head.

The collar swung at the end of the leash, and Sherlock beamed as he pulled away from Atticus’s cock. For a second, Atticus was puzzled.

“Sherlock, what –“ 

When he saw that Sherlock had removed the collar, his nimble fingers silently undoing the buckle while he distracted Atticus with a half-arsed blow job, Atticus exploded.

“You brat!” He yelled, and Sherlock yelped as he was pushed backwards. Atticus advanced on him. “The collar is sacred, you ungrateful little twink. Roll over.”

Sherlock shook his head.

If it weren’t for the mischievous twinkle dancing in Sherlock’s eyes, or his cock purpling between his legs as he spread them for Atticus to see, Atticus would have kicked Sherlock out with the promise that they would never see one another again. When Atticus realised that Sherlock was purposefully attempting to wind him up, something changed.

Atticus’s eyes hardened. Any warmth in his face ebbed away and was swiftly replaced with an icy stone. 

“You don’t want to play this game,” he whispered, crouching down in front of a wide eyed Sherlock. “You will lose. I will take you apart piece by piece. It’ll be slow, and it’ll be painful, and you will thank me for the privilege when I’m done. I’ll leave you aching, wanting more. I’ll leave you a shell of the man you once were. You’ll forget why you ever came to me in the first place.”

Sherlock gazed up at him. 

“Please,” he said quietly, weaker and more desperate than he’d ever dared to be. Because this wasn’t a game anymore, this was a plea. If Atticus couldn’t help him, no one could. “Help me to forget him.”

—

“Where were you?” Mary asked the moment John opened the front door. It was nearing midnight, the moon’s light just breaking through the haze of cloud that hung over London like a looming phantom. John hadn’t particularly wanted to get a taxi back to his and Mary’s; black cabs were expensive and while Sherlock had no shortage of funds from the Bank of Mycroft, John had almost curbed the habit of using them so often.

But when he left Baker Street it was 23:00, and Rosie was fast asleep in his arms. He didn’t want to take her on the hour tube journey back home, especially given the time of night, and he resolved to hailing a cab from outside 221B.

“You know where I was, and shush. Rosie’s sleeping.”

“You know I don’t like her going there,” Mary said, not lowering her voice.

John ignored her and carried Rosie upstairs. She should have been in bed hours ago, but both Sherlock and John had become too swept up in the happenings of Bean.com to remember that time was a thing they needed to adhere by. John would have happily worked all night if it hadn’t been for their brief argument.

John put Rosie in her cot and toed his shoes off. Once he reached his and Mary’s room he sat on the edge of the bed, thinking.

He wasn’t as bothered about work as Sherlock thought he was. Of course he wasn’t. He’d much rather run off to Cambridge with Sherlock than attempt to beat his record of how many courses of antibiotics he could prescribe in one day. But that wasn’t the point.

John didn’t know when he’d realised that he was stealing himself for the hearing divorce. Certainly, he and Mary hadn’t discussed it, but over the past few months John had realised that he was preparing himself.

He’d set up a new bank account, and a new savings account for Rosie. Two things he hadn’t told Mary about, though he wouldn’t be surprised if she already knew. He had bags of clothes packed for them both, too. Hidden but ready to go at a moments notice.  
John didn’t know when he’d decided he wanted to leave Mary, but he knew he’d been preparing for it for a while. He made a point of picking Rosie up from the babysitters, taking her to baby classes and doing as much as he could to ensure that he would be granted full-custody when it inevitably went to court.

It was harder for a father to keep hold of his children after a divorce. And John was going to be damned if Mary won Rosie.

He texted Sherlock.

JW: I’ll be at Kings Cross at 09:15. Rosie’s coming. (00:36)

When Sherlock didn’t reply, John texted his rugby mate, Bill Murray.

JW: Operation Silverman is go. Tomorrow evening. (00:50)

BM: Should I get a drink in? (00:55)

JW: Several (00:57)

John set his alarm and stuffed his phone into his pocket. That night he fell into an uneasy sleep, his mind as far away from the case as it was possible to be.

—

“I know you can get out of them,” Atticus said as he secured Sherlock’s wrists together in plain metal hand cuffs. “But my sturdier equipment is upstairs. I swear to god, brat, if you put up any more of a fuss then I will take it as a safe-word and this entire evening is over. Do I make myself clear?”

Sherlock nodded.

“What was that?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?” Atticus pressed.

“Yes… please?” Sherlock tried. Atticus laughed. It was a deep, rumbling laugh that made Sherlock shiver. He felt so exposed, so hopeless, and so desperate to forget about John for a few hours that he yearned to replace his heart ache with a different form of pain. He didn’t need to think about John. He didn’t want to think about John.

But he’d made promises to stay away from the drugs.

“From now on you will refer to me as Master,” Atticus told him. Sherlock rolled his eyes in spite of himself. “And you will be brat until you learn to behave yourself. So, do I make myself clear, brat?”

“Yes, master,” Sherlock replied, glaring at Atticus feet.

“Good. Get up onto your hands and knees – oh wait.” Atticus chuckled. “You can’t.”

Atticus picked up the leash again and buckled it a bit tighter than he had done previously around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock groaned as Atticus rummaged around in his pocket and extracted a small padlock, which he fitted around the buckle. 

“Do you always carry padlocks around with you?” Sherlock asked, and after a split-second, added: “Master?”

Atticus simply smiled at him.

“Until you learn to be trusted the padlock stays on,” he said, picking up the leash again. “I don’t like dirty little subs who try to escape me. They end up regretting it.”

Sherlock didn’t find it in the least bit amusing when Atticus suddenly scooped Sherlock up and tossed him over his shoulder in a very uncouth fireman’s lift. His head dangled level with Atticus arse, and his cock rubbed against Atticus’ shirt as Atticus carried him upstairs. The leash dangled down, catching on the steps.

Atticus took Sherlock into a room which he hadn’t entered in his previous visit. It was larger than Atticus’ bedroom, with a large wrought iron bed-frame. 

In one corner of the room stood a large black wardrobe, and next to that sat a matching chest of drawers. Still upside down, Sherlock sought to take in as much as possible. He smirked when he spotted the dildos standing up right like trophies in a glass cabinet, alongside a dazzling collection of butt plugs Sherlock had only dreamed of.

Atticus dropped Sherlock onto the bed and grinned down at him. “You know, given our last session I expected you to be better at this,” he said. Sherlock shrugged, which was no easy feat with his hands trapped beneath him. “Roll onto your stomach.”

Surprisingly, Sherlock did as he was told with no complaints. Atticus knotted the leash around one of the metal bars of the headboard and made his way over to the wardrobe. Sherlock sighed quietly. 

It was better than lounging around on the sofa, wondering whether it was worth the trip to Watford for cigarettes just so that he’d have something to do.

“I’m going to gag you, Sherlock,” Atticus told him, making his way back over to him and dangling a red ball gag in front of his face. “Because I don’t think you’ll manage an orgasm if you keep running that tongue of yours.”

“Probably a good idea,” Sherlock replied, and after a raised eyebrow stare from Atticus: “Master.”

“Good. Lift your head and open wide.”

Atticus pushed the gag in just behind Sherlock’s teeth and buckled it around the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock was then surprised to then realise that Atticus clipped the buckle of the gag to the buckle of the collar using what appeared to be a smaller extension of the leash. Sherlock presumed it was purely for decorative purposes.

“There’s a good boy.”

Atticus ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, then brushed his finger tips down Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock gasped quietly around the gag, all too aware of his aching cock lying flat on his stomach, forgotten about but yearning to be touched. Atticus had other ideas.

“You’re going to come untouched for me tonight, Sherlock,” he said, his fingers dancing around Sherlock’s cock but never once touching it. “You’re not leaving until you do. Nod if you understand.”

Sherlock nodded, warmth flooding through him as excitement caught on. He was loathe to admit that the promise of Atticus spending the whole night with him made his head rush, thoughts of John ebbing away as he focused on the task at hand. 

He needed to prove himself to Atticus. To show that he was worth keeping.

“And I see you’ve already prepared yourself,” Atticus hummed, wrapping strong, muscular hands around Sherlock’s thighs and lifting them to peer at the plug Sherlock had shoved in his arse before leaving. “But this one is no good.” He pulled it out, earning a whimper from Sherlock. Sherlock closed his eyes, humiliation flooding him as Atticus pushed his legs up further. Sherlock felt as though he was going to be folded in half, his feet were so close to his face.

Atticus looked into Sherlock’s hole, and Sherlock’s stomach knotted as Atticus slowly spit into it.

Sherlock wriggled as Atticus laughed. He’d never been more humiliated in his life, but then Atticus leaned closer and licked a stripe along one side of Sherlock’s hole and Sherlock relaxed, trying to push his bum out for more.

Atticus used copious amounts of spit as lube to open Sherlock. 

“I know it’s impractical,” he told Sherlock as he pushed in four fingers, fucking him absent-mindedly as he curled them. “But I like it, and you don’t get to decide what you like anymore.”

Sherlock nodded, crying out as Atticus slowly pushed his entire fist into Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock was beside himself, trapped on the end of Atticus and somehow craving more. It’s all he could think about. He wanted to be full. He wanted to be ripped in half and put back together again, just as Atticus had promised him. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to come anymore, his cock still neglected. He wanted to give everything to Atticus.

Atticus leaned over and pecked Sherlock’s cheek, his lips straying to Sherlock’s ear where he nibbled on the lobe. He ducked his head and suck at Sherlock’s pale skin, then brought his mouth back to Sherlock’s ear.

“You’ll forget all about John. I promise.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John travel to Cambridge to interview Georgina Williams. John learns one or two things about Sherlock’s past.

Atticus yanked Sherlock’s hair to pull his head back. Precome dripped onto the bedsheets and Atticus grinned wickedly.

“Such a messy, naughty little brat,” he hummed, swiping his finger through the small puddle and pressing his digit against Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock shivered. There was nowhere near enough precome to use as lube, but Sherlock knew that Atticus would give it a good go. He breathed hard around the gag. If Atticus’s dedication to using saliva as lube the night before was anything to go by, Sherlock was sure he was in for a good time.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Atticus started, manoeuvring Sherlock so that he was flat on his back, his hands crushed beneath him. Atticus wrapped his hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock and began stroking it gently. Sherlock pushed his hips up, yearning for more.

“You’re going to take whatever I give you. You’re not going to complain; you’re going to accept it. I need to break you in. But you’ve got experience with this already, haven’t you? But oh, how your narcissism has taken control of your behaviour. I wonder if I can deduce…”

He moved his hand slowly up Sherlock’s shaft and Sherlock followed it, chasing Atticus’ hand before he pulled it away. He’d woken up with an erection, his arse full of a plug he didn’t remember being put there. 

Atticus ducked down and but down on Sherlock’s right nipple. Sherlock understood that he couldn’t expect niceties from Atticus. Atticus was a man of biting. A man of pain.

And that was okay. John had forced Sherlock into a world where kindness was required, expected. It was good to have Atticus strip that away and remind him that the world really was formidable as it had been, before John had come along an made everything rose tinted.

“It started off as quick blow jobs in pub toilets, didn’t it? You didn’t mind that they’d never get you off in return, because they gave you something much better… but you enjoyed it, didn’t you? You enjoyed having your arse and mouth full of cock. Your boyfriends couldn’t handle you, could they? You’ve always been so needy…”

Atticus traced his hand across Sherlock’s stomach, from his pelvis up to his collarbone. Sherlock felt Atticus’ finger even after it had left, like the white lines left by aeroplanes in the sky.

He watched Atticus, more saliva pouring from around the gag. He couldn’t help it. Atticus smirked.

“I’m right, aren’t I? How badly do you want it?”

Sherlock nodded desperately, staring at Atticus through wide, pleading eyes. His pupils dilated to the point that his irises were barely visible, and his breath caught in his chest as the cock ring was snapped around the base of his penis.

“You’re not going to come, not until I give you permission,” Atticus told him, stroking Sherlock’s red cock. Precome pooled across Sherlock’s stomach as it twitched hopefully.

Atticus pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

“You’re all mine.”

—

John found Sherlock in the queue at Pret A Manger inside King’s Cross station. He looked tired. John could see the bags under his eyes from the other side of the café, and if he wasn’t much mistaken another bruise had appeared on Sherlock’s cheek.

What on Earth was he doing?

The station was packed with sour face business people who glared at everyone who dared cross their path. The queue for Leon was outside the door, and John decided it was best to move away from the jet stream of people hurtling towards the entrance to the underground and wait by a table in Pret.

King’s Cross was a big station, and it had always held a soft spot in John’s heart, or, as much of a soft spot as a train station could hold. The long concourse curved around and John remembered sitting in the pub at the far end with Bill Murray one evening.

“Is there something going on between you and that bloke?” Bill had asked as he sipped his pint of Guinness.

The pub was relatively dark, the orange bulbs designed to make the place more cosy with its railway-plaques against the walls. John shrugged, playing with his beer mat.

“Sherlock? He’s just Sherlock, isn’t he?”

“But, yeah,” Bill put his glass back down. “But I’ve seen you two together. You’re better when you’re with him.”

John laughed coldly. “Better with him than with Mary?”

“Mate,” Bill lowered his voice and leaned across the table slightly. “We know you’re not happy with her. The whole team knows it. I know –“ he cut John off before he could argue, “we need to keep out of it, but you know if you ever need anything, anyone on the team will help you. Just let us know, yeah? You’ve had a shit time of it and we do worry about you.”

John eyed Bill closely. Skeptically. He weighed his options. Normally, John kept everything internalised; both of his parents were dead and his main maternal figure (because for all her insistence of her not being their housekeeper, she was almost certainly the mother hen who tucked Sherlock and John under her wing), was always on Sherlock’s side. He couldn’t talk to Mary. He didn’t talk to Mary. They only discussed Rosie and whether they’d run out of washing up liquid.

After a few moments deliberation, weighing his options and settling on his decision, John decided to tell Bill everything.

“Mary shot him,” he said quickly, wiping a bead of condescension which ran down the edge of his glass. “In the chest. He died on the operating table but they revived him a few minutes later. He was legally dead for three minutes. Because Mary put a bullet in him.”

Bill’s eyes widened. John nodded. A few tables away, a waitress dropped a glass. It smashed, and several patrons cheered. Neither John nor Bill looked up.

“And Sherlock said that Mary shooting him was surgery. As if Mary was helping him by shooting him… How stupid does he really think I am?” John shook his head. “Mary didn’t want to help him, she wanted him dead. And now she’s at home looking after our baby and I don’t think she even likes Rosie, not really. She’s just trying to create the life she thinks she should have when really…” he trailed away. “She’s not good. I need to get out but I don’t know how.”

John drank too much of his beer in one go. It sloshed around the corners of his mouth and dribbled down his chin. His hands were shaking.

Bill stayed quiet while John talked. It was rare that they had a conversation that went any deeper than the England team’s rugby scores. For the two men to delve into their feelings and personal lives was a rarity in itself, but John knew he could trust Bill in his capacity as a friend and team captain.

“You need to leave her,” Bill said eventually, after considering John for a few moments. “Look, John, I’m not a marriage counsellor but that’s not what I’d call a healthy relationship. That’s… it’s not good. Especially after Sherlock…”

“I know,” John sighed. “But what can I do? It’s more difficult for a man to get custody of the child. I don’t think Mary would care too much about me taking Rosie but she’d do it just to spite me. And where would I go?” He ran a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t go to Baker Street, not straight away. I mean, part of the problem is that I…”

Bill didn’t push him, but John decided to say it anyway. He had to say it. There was no point in hiding it. He’d already told Bill that his wife was an assassin, what harm was there in spilling a few more beans?

“The problem with me and Mary is that when she found me I was mourning Sherlock. He’d been gone for four months and I don’t think I realised, I don’t think I knew… I don’t think I realised then that I loved him. And it wasn’t just some stupid crush.” He shook his head. “No, I loved Sherlock and when he died I lost it. Completely. Mary shoulder-barged her way in and for a while she was all I could see. She was what I needed to get me through it. I shouldn’t have proposed, I shouldn’t have done it.

“I should have taken Sherlock’s return, interrupting the proposal as a sign, but I bloody did it anyway. Because I’m an idiot. I married a woman who I didn’t love, because I felt obligated after all she’d done for me. But now I know that she wasn’t really doing it for me, she was doing it for the position of power that came from dating a man like me and I know that sounds vain but it’s true. She didn’t love me, she was using me and my fucking angsty mourning to create the perfect life she’s not capable of having because she’s a psychopath. She grabbed me when I was at my weakest point and tried to rebuild me into what I’m not, nor had any intention, of being.

John’s voice was shaking now, anger flaring in chest.

“She married me and had my baby and shot my best friend. She’s vile at home, always putting me down and making plans about our future without discussing it with me first. If I want to do something… I can’t. I have to run it by her months in advance and then wait for a verdict, but she disappears at the drop of a hat. And then,” John leaned back in his chair, “you’ve got Sherlock to consider. Sherlock’s not interested in relationships, literally couldn’t give a shit. I can’t keep bloody pining after him when I haven’t even fucking come out to him.”

“But he must know…”

John shook his head. “I don’t think he does. Sherlock’s not good with people. I don’t even think he’s ever had sex. And I always tell him I’m not gay.”

“You’re bi.”

“Yes.”

Bill quirked a smile at him. “Remember that guy from Staffordshire Uni?” He asked, a grin creeping across his face. “I’d never seen two people so bloody infatuated with each other. That game was chaotic.”

John chuckled. They’d had quite spectacular sex in the changing rooms while everyone was off celebrating King’s College’s win. He sipped his beer.

“You could still have that,” Bill told him, losing the grin. “You could. Maybe not with Sherlock, but certainly not with Mary. Let’s put an escape plan in place, yeah? You can stay at mine. Hannah won’t mind.”

John had left the pub that night incredibly excited and terrified at the prospect of leaving his wife.

They gave the operation a code word. When John texted Bill that the operation was a go, it meant that the plan was in motion.

The testing of the fire alarm brought John back to the present.

He checked his watch and eyed a homeless man with shock ginger hair who was approaching passers by. Rosie was secured in a baby carrier, strapped to his chest and facing the world at large. She stared in awe at the at the green light illuminating the dark ceiling beneath the rain clouds, and John absent-mindedly kissed her temple. She liked the station, too.

“Here,” Sherlock handed John a coffee. “Cappuccino, and a croissant. Do babies eat porridge? I bought Rosie some porridge. I know how grumpy you both are if you don’t eat.”

John sipped his drink. “Ta. Rosie’s good, this bag has enough food to last her four days.” He chuckled and patted the pink bag draped over his shoulder. Sherlock took it from him and put it over his own, then handed the porridge over to the homeless man who was now making his way over to a gaggle of young, unsuspecting French tourists.

Sherlock then walked out across the concourse and stood in front of the departure boards. John followed.

“So, Georgina Williams.” He said, standing level with Sherlock and squinting at the board.

“Hm.” Sherlock nodded.

“Can’t we just phone her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need visual evidence.”

John frowned.

“Evidence of what?”

“Never mind.”

John’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. John reached into his pocket and flicked his phone on silent.

“Sherlock,” John tried again, “I don’t see why we have to go all the way to Cambridge. Blumstein worked at St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington, not Cambridge. Before that he worked in St George’s in Tooting. If you’d just explain –“

“We’re not going to Cambridge because of Blumstein,” Sherlock snapped. “We’re going to talk to Georgina Williams.”

John rolled his eyes, and at that moment a horrendous stench rose up from the baby carrier. Sherlock handed the baby bag back over to John as Rosie started crying.

Strangers turned to look and without saying a word to Sherlock, John waddled the length of the concourse with a smelly baby who was screaming her heart out at making such a stench.

—

The train journey was relatively uneventful. Sherlock and John found a table seat, and John sat Rosie down on the table between them. She turned and pressed her hands, and then face, against the window, staring at the fields as they rolled by.

“That’s a cow,” John told her, pointing at a herd several fields away. His hand rested on her back. “Cow.”

John wasn’t sure that Rosie had understood, because she turned to face Sherlock and began babbling incessantly at him. John chuckled, his heart swelling as he watched the two talk to one another.

When Rosie was born he was scared that Sherlock wouldn’t take to her, that he’d want nothing to do with her. Mary had already driven an axe between their friendship, and a baby, surely, would only worsen the blow.

It had done the opposite.

Sherlock was scared of Rosie in the beginning. John remembered watching, with bemused interest, Sherlock staring down into the cot when they’d first brought Rosie to Baker Street. Sherlock had frowned, and John chuckled when he realised that Sherlock was trying to deduce her.

“She’s so… new,” he said eventually, not taking his eyes off the sleeping baby. “And flawless.”

“I don’t know about that,” Mary said as she bustled through. “You haven’t smelt her nappies.”

Sherlock ignored her.

“Sherlock, you know we’re christening her, right?” John asked.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. “Of for God’s… why? Neither of you are Christians. You’ve both killed people. Why on earth would you decide to christen your child?” He stared pointedly at John. “Surely that’s counter intuitive.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John folded his arms across his chest.

Sherlock turned to face him. “If you christen her you have to take her to church and stuff,” he said. “And I’m not going with you.”

“No one invited you,” John replied, smiling slightly. “But we would need you there for the christening.”

“Why?” Sherlock whined. John couldn’t believe that he had a baby, and an angsty teenager at the same time.

“Because it’s important!” John said, then hesitated. “And I, I mean, we, would like you to be godfather, so you kind of have to be at the christening for that.”

Sherlock blinked stupidly at him as John smiled. Mary crept up behind John and took his hand.

“Mary and I would like you to be godfather to our child,” he said again.

Sherlock frowned.

“But…” he said hesitantly. “I’m not a god.”

John chuckled to himself and sipped his cappuccino as he reminisced, while watching Sherlock be a spectacular godfather despite not really knowing what one was in the beginning.

“Is that right?” Sherlock asked Rosie as she continued to babble. He sipped his coffee. “Shall I let you into a little secret?” He leaned in to whisper something in her ear, and John frowned, wondering what on Earth he was going to say. But at the last second, Sherlock began tickling Rosie’s side.

She squealed happily, giggling and wriggling as Sherlock continued to tickle her. John chuckled. He hadn’t dreamt that Sherlock would be so good with his daughter.

“Oh, she’s a dream.” A woman pushing a trolley of snacks stopped at their table. She smiled kindly Rosie, who was now trying to wriggle into Sherlock’s arms, wanting more tickles.

Sherlock and John both smiled, watching Rosie fondly. “How old is she?”

“Almost a year,” John replied, watching as Sherlock scooped Rosie up and put her in his lap. She smiled across the table at John.

“Look at her smiling! I don’t think I’ve seen a happier baby… you two must be really good parents.”

John nearly choked on his cappuccino. “Oh, we’re not…” he began, but the woman wasn’t listening.

“Alright, well its been lovely talking to you both, but this tea won’t sell itself!”

She trundled off, leaving a very flustered John behind her. Sherlock seemed nonplussed.

 

—

Georgina Williams had a square jaw and a big forehead. Her dyed red hair was pulled up in a tight ponytail, and John could just about make out the dark roots coming through. She smiled warmly at the pair of them.

“Hi,” she said, “you must be Sherlock and John. Come in.” She stepped aside, allowing them both to enter. Rosie stared at her, wide eyed as John thanked her.

“Sorry about the baby,” Sherlock said, waving Rosie’s name aside. “Intern.”

Georgina grinned. “It’s not a problem. I know how temperamental babysitters can be,” she said, misreading the situation entirely. “She’s cute.”

John beamed. He loved hearing praise regarding his daughter, and would always be proud of Rosie for receiving it.

Georgina lived in a nice house. Terraced and running along a quiet street, the green front door opened immediately into a small lounge. A plush black sofa had been pushed against one wall, and an obnoxiously large white knitted blanket was slumped across it. The walls were light grey, all except one which was a deep green. The wooden flooring was draped in a large rectangular green rug, with a coffee table sat squarely in the middle. A flat screen TV stood in the corner, and above the fire place hung a large framed photograph of a highland cow, with yellow fairy lights hung around the black frame.

“I’ve always loved them,” Georgina said, following John’s gaze towards the photograph. “They look like a mop.”

“You’re an architecture student, aren’t you?” John asked, changing the subject. “At Cambridge.”

Georgina nodded enthusiastically, her smile lit up her whole face.

“Yes, that’s right. I’m in my fourth year. I love it.”

John smiled, and Sherlock cleared throat, already bored by the conversation. His arse hurt from the previous night and the following morning, and sitting on a train for an hour and a half hadn’t helped. His mind drifted to the obscenely large plug Atticus had asked him to wear on their next meet-up. He didn’t quite know how he was going to sit in a taxi with it in.

He shook his head and brought himself back to reality. The case.

“Miss Williams, I have a few questions for you regarding the Blumstein family,” he said shortly.

Georgina’s face turned from warm to uncertain in a flash. She regarded them both with unease, and John felt the tension rise. Evidently, Rosie felt it too, because she hiccupped.

“Why?” She asked, hesitating slightly. “What’s happened to the Blumsteins?”

“What do you think has happened?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know. But why else would you be here if something hadn’t happened? I’m not a fool, Mr Holmes. I know that when you turn up at a person’s house it’s normally bad news. I’ve read Doctor Watson’s blog. And seen the papers.”

John chuckled. “But you’re the first person to voice it out loud,” he mumbled, and Sherlock elbowed him. Rosie giggled.

Under the pretence of nursing his side, John pulled out a notepad and pen. Rosie tried to grab the pen, and John sighed quietly as he wrestled the baby for it. She won in the end. Sherlock pulled out a small recorder, which he set down on the coffee table next to bouquet of flowers.

John put the notepad and pen back into his pocket, frowning at the recorder.

“Dr Blumstein is dead,” Sherlock explained. “Heart attack.”

“Oh.” Georgina sat down, then gestured for Sherlock and John to do the same. “I suppose that’s bad news... I can’t pretend I ever liked him, I hope you can understand that, but I never wished him harm. Poor Barclay, he must be a mess.”

“Barclay?” John asked quickly.

Georgina nodded.

“Yes, urm, Blumstein’s son. He’s a really sweet kid, but he and his Dad never saw eye-to-eye. It was a shame. Barclay never forgave his dad for what happened with his mum, and then there was some other stuff… I mean, being Beatrix’s brother was never going to be easy... Beatrix is the dau-“

“Daughter, yes, we know. We met her the other day,” Sherlock interjected.

“She’s the one who approached you,” Georgina stated. Sherlock nodded.

“That doesn’t surprise you.”

“Well, no. Beatrix always had an overactive imagination and thought the world shone out of her father’s arse, oh, pardon,” she said, remembering Rosie. Rosie was busy hitting John’s thigh with the stolen pen. “You know about his cocaine habits, of course.”

“Yes, I caught him, once,” Sherlock replied, remembering the time he’d caught Blumstein snorting in the men’s toilets, asked for some, then promptly been told to go fuck himself.

Georgina nodded, lacing her fingers together as she stretched. Her back clicked.

“Beatrix wouldn’t have it. She’d say he was just eccentric, but it was obvious. I went into the system at six, I know a drug addict when I see one. And Doctor Blumstein was awful. It’d be fine if he admitted it, but he was putting patients’ lives in danger…” she sighed heavily. “Blumstein didn’t make my life easy, you understand, Mr Holmes. Whenever Barclay and I would have sleepovers he’d report me to the foster family I was with at the time. I couldn’t catch a break, I just wanted a friend and I had one in Barclay. Well, Blumstein thought that there was something going on between Barclay and myself, but obviously there wasn’t. He didn’t want Barclay fraternising with common filth.”

She turned her nose up as she said it, as though it was a particularly foul dog poo.

John desperately wanted to look at Sherlock, but refrained with great will-power.

“And yet here you are, studying architecture at Cambridge,” Sherlock drawled. “That’s no mean feet, and hardly considered something a commoner could achieve.”

“Blowing your own trumpet there a bit, aren’t you?” Georgina chuckled. “You’re an alumni, Mr Holmes?” She asked. “You graduated from Cambridge with a double first in chemistry, having spent the entirety of it, what was the phrase used by Professor Finley? Was it: ‘off his tits on coke everyday’?”

John giggled, though the thought of a high Sherlock did tug at his heartstrings somewhat. Georgina smirked, pleased to have illicit a giggle from John.

Sherlock’s scowl was death.

“Like I said, I know an addict when I see one.”

“And what made you choose to study architecture, Miss Williams?” Sherlock asked, apparently unable to help himself, “was it wanting to learn more about structure and reliability? Something you never had as a child.”

“Sherlock!”

Georgina looked about ready to punch him.

“My past does not define me, Mr Holmes,” Georgina replied curtly. John knew that these were practised words. This wasn’t the first time she’d said them. “I have achieved what I achieved because I wanted to. Nobody helped me.”

“Not even with this house?” Sherlock asked. Georgina looked startled.

“I - what?”

“This house,” Sherlock repeated. “I know I certainly could never afford to buy it as a student.”

“Because you were buying drugs. I don’t do -“

“But you do other things, don’t you, Georgina?”

Sherlock leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees.

“The modern sugar baby, or, am I getting it mixed up with something else? Don’t worry, I understand. I was in a similar position myself as a student, except received payments in drugs, rather than cash.”

Georgina’s cheeks turned crimson.

John stared at Sherlock, a wave of questions almost bowling him over from the sheer unexpectedness of what Sherlock had just said about his past.

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t see how that’s rele -“

“His name, Miss Williams,” Sherlock pressed.

“I-“

“Miss Williams,” Sherlock stated, “I suggest you tell me his name, and how you met him.”

Georgina looked like she was about to cry. John stood up. Rosie had drawn a stripe on John’s jeans, and John knew that tea would be the only way to soothe Georgina in her current internal battle. He also needed a distraction from learning that not only was Sherlock not a virgin, but that he’d prostituted himself out for drugs as a student.

John made his way into the kitchen just as Georgina said: “his name is Jay. Barclay introduced us.”

Sherlock grinned.

“Alright, John, we have all we needed from Miss Williams,” Sherlock called to him. “Thank you, by the way. You’ve been an incredible help.”

John strode back into the lounge carrying a mug of tea for Georgina.

“Here,” he said, placing it in front of her as Sherlock scooped up the recorder in a flurry. “It’ll help, trust me.”

Georgina glared at him. “Get out.”

Sherlock and John didn’t need to be told twice. Sherlock was already halfway up the street when John caught up with him.

“Sherlock!” He gasped. Running was more difficult than he’d imagined with a baby strapped to his chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock checked his watch. “Walking back to the station. There’s a train in half an hour, if we run we can catch it.”

“You’ve just left that poor girl in floods of tears -“

“Oh do get off your pony, John,” Sherlock huffed, and John blinked. That wasn’t the phrase at all. He had to fight to withhold his smirk. “Georgina can take care of herself. That was an act, that, that crying.”

“You just swanned in there, told her that a friend’s parent had died, insulted her for being an orphan and insulted her for how she supports herself!” John snapped. “She’s crying because you upset her, Sherlock. No other reason.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“She’s crying because of what she’s done, not because of me.”

“You pointed it out, though,” John retaliated.

“Yes, didn’t I? Displaying empathy only made her angrier. Why? Because she likes being different. Her struggles are her own, John. Her choices are her own. She didn’t care that I knew she’d pimped herself out to afford a house. She was proud of it; you saw how well thought out that lounge was. She probably helped him choose it. No, Georgina is proud of what she’s done and what she was able to achieve. I wouldn’t be surprised if she loves whoever has put her up. She’s angry, not because of what I’ve said about what she’s done, but what someone else has done.”

John stared at him.

“You… what?” John shuffled his weight onto his good leg. He was trying to understand, but all he could think about was a drug-addicted Sherlock having sex to pay for more drugs. Sherlock seemed to know that John’s mind was elsewhere.

“What?” He asked, exasperated. The wind picked up and Sherlock’s coat billowed around his legs as the leaves skipped across the pavement.

Rosie watched them go.

“You… you were a prostitute?” John asked hesitantly. “For drugs.”

“I’d have said it differently, but yes.” Sherlock nodded. “Come on, we’re going to miss the train.”

John shook his head. “No, Sherlock. This is big.”

“Why is it?” Sherlock asked, rounding on John. “How’s it any different from you hopping from country to country and shagging every woman you came into contact with? Why did you do that? Because you enjoyed it? Because I enjoyed it too, but as always I was smarter than you and worked my way around it to get something else from it. Train.”

Sherlock spun on his heel and took off up the street. Rosie sniffed.

“Sherlock, wait.”

John jogged after him. 

“I’m not judging you,” he said when he’d caught up. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Okay, maybe for the drugs.” John agreed. “But I’m not judging you for having sex with…”

“Men,” Sherlock supplied. He was hot in the face and he threw his arms up as he spoke. “S’pose we ought to bring that one to light, too, seeing as you’ve never once clocked on. I’m gay, John.” John stared at him. “And, if you hadn’t noticed, which I very much doubt because you have a brain the size of a pea and it’s completely unreasonable of me to think that after several years of following me around you might have enhanced your own deductive techniques: I am seeing someone.”

Somehow, that revelation hurt more than finding out that Sherlock was high for most of his student days. When had Sherlock started seeing someone? Who was he? John’s stomach knotted all at the same time. He felt sick. Embarrassed. How was Sherlock dating someone and John didn’t know? Why hadn’t Sherlock told him?

John remained quiet, staring at Sherlock.

All this time he’d thought that Sherlock wasn’t interested in love. He presumed that relationships with Sherlock, platonic ones, at least, happened as a by-product of one Sherlock’s schemes. He’d never considered that Sherlock would ever like a person enough to want to be in a relationship with them.

Something akin to jealousy roared in John’s stomach and the nausea vanished. He wanted to find out who Sherlock was dating and punch him. How could this man have wormed into Sherlock’s life while John waited for the opportunity to make a move? Fear of rejection held him back, and now someone had taken what should be his place. The years of yearning for the information he needed to know before he made a move on the detective, and for what? Some smarmy bastard to get there first? To snap Sherlock up, to have sex with Sherlock – The bruises.

The cogs in John’s brain ground to a halt, a thought jamming one of them as images of how Sherlock would have sustained those injuries flooded his brain.

That was abuse. The man was beating Sherlock to a pulp every night and John’s stomach roared as something red and angry filled his very core until slowly, the red morphed into green.

John shook his head. Would he have actually made a move on Sherlock if he’d known that Sherlock was gay? And, why had Sherlock never tried anything on with John? Never let him know? Sherlock was gay and hadn’t made a move on John, not once in all their years of knowing one another. It didn’t matter that John was hopelessly, desperately in love with the detective. Sherlock had never thought about him like that.

The cog ground against the thought bubble and expelled it, John’s brain going into overdrive.

“What’s his name?” John asked quietly, his voice a lot more calmer than his head. “The man, who you’re… dating.”

He felt like he was at school again, discussing crushes.

“Atticus,” Sherlock replied, looking down at his feet. “We met at a night club. He’s a doctor. Pharmacist, person. Works with chemicals.”

That would make sense, John thought, for Sherlock to fall in love with a chemist, a man with similar interests. But Atticus was a stupid name and John already knew that he didn’t like this new Atticus bloke. Somehow the fact that he had a stupid name only heightened John’s hatred of him.

“Were you going to tell me?”

“No.”

“Okay.” John took a deep breath. “What time is the train?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you enjoyed that! As ever, this fic is dedicated to the wonderful Lisa!
> 
> Please, if you have any comments and criticisms please let me know! I love reading the comments and they’re really helpful.
> 
> Id just like to point out that while John believes that Sherlock is being abused, what sherlock and Atticus get up to is 100% consensual.
> 
> This fic will be around 10 chapters long, and I’ll be updating every few days or as often as I feasibly can.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x
> 
> P.s I’m also now accepting prompts, which you can give to me by commenting below or stalking me on some other social media page.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quite a short chapter in comparison to the others, but personally I think it’s pretty important to the plot. 
> 
> It’s set the morning before Sherlock and John head off to Cambridge, but the reason as to why the timeline is a bit skewed is hopefully explained later in the chapter. 
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains references to drug-use, drugs and sex, and extremely dubious consent. Please, if you don’t want to read that I advise you ignore this chapter. 
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x

“Molly!” Sherlock smiled brightly as he stumbled into the room. The door had been open when he’d expected it to be locked, and he fell into the morgue while clutching the door handle for dear life.

“Sherlock?” Molly frowned, voice thick with her meal deal sandwich. She was on her break, working the graveyard shift. Sherlock beamed at her. “Are you high?”

She was incredibly blunt about it, to which Sherlock was grateful. He detested people beating about the bush, scared about asking. Worried about offending him. John was the worst for it.

“Are you… Sherlock? Have you?”

“Am I what?”

“Have you taken…”

Molly’s directness came as a welcome change.

“No, Molly, I’m not,” Sherlock replied, straightening up. “I have just been shagged within an inch of my life and the endorphins are doing wonders.” He didn’t noticed as Molly sprayed her sandwich across the table. “I need to see the reports on Dr Blumstein.”

Coughing as she choked up her sandwich, Molly put her sandwich down and wheeled her chair over to the computer desk without getting up.

“Urm, here,” she said, taking a gulp of tea from her flask before continuing. “It was a heart attack, though.” She opened a folder, frowning at the screen. It was 4am. She was due to finish her shift soon.

“Oh I don’t doubt that it was a heart attack that killed Blumstein,” Sherlock hummed, his hand on the back of Molly’s chair as he leaned over. He squinted at the charts and the table, and the brief description. “Did Dr Blumstein have any injuries prior to him dying? Any wounds on the body?”

“Urm…” Molly yawned and nodded. She wiped some sleep out her eyes.

The fluorescent lights embedded in the ceiling flickered dimly, and a printer kicked into life in the corner as Molly began printing the report.

“Maybe? A patient bit him,” she said, then hesitated, glancing up at Sherlock. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it; everyone was talking about it. There were memes on office group chats and everything. The nurses down on the dementia ward had a verbal warning about it. Pretty sure John sent me one.” Sherlock didn’t fail to notice the way she looked him up and down as she said John’s name, wondering whether he’d been involved with Sherlock being ‘shagged to within an inch of his life’. She decided not to ask. “I didn’t examine the body, but Victor did. He’s competent, if he’d have seen something out of place he’d have written it in the report.”

Molly stood and ambled over to the printer. She stapled the sheets together and handed them over to Sherlock.

“It’s all here. It’s his funeral tomorrow so I can’t wheel the body out for you to look at yourself. Anyway,” she sat back down. “I finish in two hours. Fancy going for breakfast?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, flicking through the report. “I’m going to Cambridge.”

“Oh.” Molly looked a bit put-out by Sherlock’s direct response, but after all these years she was used to it. “How’s John?”

“Married,” Sherlock replied, not looking up. “TTFN, Molly!”

Sherlock strode out, head buried in the report.

Molly sighed and began cleaning up her spewed sandwich.

—

Sherlock crawled back into bed with Atticus, still clutching the report. Atticus was asleep, lying on his side with his head on the pillow. Sherlock smiled and ruffled Atticus’ green hair.

“Wake up,” he said, then pressed his cold feet against Atticus’ back.

Atticus groaned and rolled over. “Urgh, get off.” Despite being half asleep, he still managed to successfully grab one of Sherlock’s ankles. Sherlock giggled and wriggled.

“Let go. I have a question.”

Atticus tickled the underside of Sherlock’s foot, then dropped it. “Go ahead, but if I’m not asleep again within two minutes I’m going to be angry.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“A customer comes into your pharmacy with a human bite. Wrist. As a pharmacist, how much blood would you expect?”

Atticus rubbed his eyes and sat up. He flicked his bedside light on.

“Depends. How deep is the bite? Where? Did it pierce any veins?”

Sherlock handed over the report. The page he’d left it open on showed a picture of a uncovered wrist injury, though if it were not for the slight curvature it wouldn’t have been obvious that it was a bite at all. It was was on the inside of Blumstein’s arm, but was entirely scabbed over. There weren’t any stitches.

Atticus frowned, and Sherlock cuddled up to him.

“Yeah, that would have bled a lot…” he said, “but there’s no…”

“Stitches, I know.” Sherlock nodded, turning the page. “Blumstein dealt with the injury himself, dressed it, cleaned it, but…” There was a discharge form, signed off by a man called Victor Trevor. “If Blumstein saw to his own treatment, why did he need a discharge form? And what’s more, why did a pathologist sign off on it? Because Victor Trevor also wrote the autopsy report.”

Atticus’ eyes widened.

“Wait, what are you saying?” Atticus asked, sitting up a little straighter as Sherlock moved off him.

Sherlock grinned.

“Beatrix was right. Blumstein was murdered, and this man, Trevor, orchestrated the whole thing. But!”

Sherlock fumbled around with his phone and pulled up the hospital’s website. There was a list of staff, and Sherlock had zoomed in on the pathologists. Molly’s name was there, but there was no Victor Trevor listed.

“Victor Trevor doesn’t exist at this hospital.”

Atticus leaned over and kissed Sherlock softly, holding Sherlock’s jaw to prevent him from pulling away. Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled as he let Atticus kiss him, the report lay between them.

“You’re a genius, Mr Holmes.” Atticus said, pulling away and scanning the detective closely. “But it’s been two minutes and I’m not asleep. You know what that means.”

Sherlock grinned and climbed off the bed. Atticus sat on the edge of the bed, carding a hand through Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock kneeled between Atticus’ legs. “Make me hard, brat.”

Sherlock pressed his nose against Atticus’ cock and breathed him in, feeling Atticus’ hand tighten in his curls. The close proximity caused Atticus’ cock to stir, but Sherlock knew it wouldn’t be enough to get him hard.

He wrapped his hand around the base of Atticus’ penis and began stroking him gently. At the same time, he pressed his tongue flat against the head. Atticus shivered, looking down at him as Sherlock playfully took the head in his mouth, but didn’t close his lips around it.

“You’re such a tease,” Atticus huffed, his penis slowly hardening. It wasn’t happening as quickly as he’d have otherwise liked it, and he gripped Sherlock’s hair a little harder as incentive to hurry up.

“I’m getting bored, brat,” Atticus told Sherlock, a warning edge to his voice. Sherlock didn’t speed up, and within less than a second of waiting Atticus had pushed Sherlock away.

Sherlock landed squarely on his arse, and he looked up at Atticus, his legs spread and his cock standing to attention between his thighs. Atticus sighed.

“We can’t have that,” he said. He stood and walked over to the desk in the corner of the room. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a small ring. Sherlock sighed quietly. He knew what it was.

“We both know you can’t come from sucking me off alone,” Atticus said, stooping down and clipping the cock ring around the base of Sherlock’s penis. Sherlock bit his lip. It wasn’t uncomfortable, as such, but it was tight and the initial sensation made his cock twitch. “But why risk it? Kneel, brat.”

Sherlock rose quickly into a kneeling position, and Atticus returned to the drawer. Sherlock watched as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs, a bottle of lube, a spreader bar, and a small pink bullet vibrator.

Atticus grabbed Sherlock’s hands and pushed them together before he forced his hands into the cuffs. Sherlock gasped at the display of dominance, and a bead of precome dripped onto the floorboards beneath him.

Atticus then grabbed Sherlock’s ankles and wrapped them in leather cuffs, which he then forced apart and slotted the spreader bar in between them. So wide were Sherlock’s knees now that he risked losing his balance, but luckily Atticus was there to help him. He grabbed Sherlock’s hair again and pushed him down against the bed, so that he was bent over the edge of the mattress with his cheek pressed against the bed sheet.

He wondered whether Atticus had a low bed for precisely this reason.

Sherlock heard the snap of the lube bottle top opening and braced himself.

It was one of the rare occasions that Atticus was quick. He didn’t hang around. There was no teasing. Once two fingers slotted in easily, he went in with the third.

Sherlock chewed his lip as he tried to push back against Atticus’ fingers, but quick slap to his arse cheek told him to stop.

“Hold off, brat. You’re such a slut. You’d probably come just from this if I let you, wouldn’t you? Just my fingers opening you up…”

Sherlock whimpered and nodded, more precome dripping from the tip. His cheeks burnt red. He didn’t know when he’d become so greedy and sensitive in the bedroom, but he supposed Atticus was just that good.

“Yes, master,” he agreed, and the next second Atticus had pushed the vibrator into Sherlock’s arse and switched it on. Sherlock yelped as the vibrator collided with his prostate and he began rolling his hips, desperately seeking the friction of the edge of the mattress.

Atticus laughed.

“Straighten up, brat. You only get to come when I say so, do you understand? And you’re not going to come until after I have and feel that it was worth my time being woken up at 5am.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, master,” he whispered, relieved as Atticus pushed him back and sat down on the edge of the bed again. Sherlock wrapped his lips around Atticus’ cock immediately and hollowed out his cheeks.

Atticus sighed and picked up the report as Sherlock bobbed his head, pretending that Sherlock’s struggle wasn’t worth his time at all.

He licked his thumb and turned the page.

“You know, this Victor, whoever he is, he must have a disguise of some sort,” Atticus said, trying to squash a shudder that rose up in him as Sherlock swallowed around him. “For everyone to know who he is but also not know him.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement, sending vibrations along Atticus’ now incredibly erect cock. Sherlock could taste waves of salt, and so while Atticus was doing a good job of pretending that Sherlock’s blow job was having no affect on him, Sherlock knew otherwise.

It was one of the longest blow jobs Sherlock had ever given anyone in his life. He tried all the different techniques he knew, but try as he might Atticus simply would not come. He’d been going for half an hour before Atticus shoved him back directly onto the vibrator and Sherlock moaned loudly, curling up to alleviate some of the pressure on his prostate.

“Look up, brat.” Atticus said, standing.

Sherlock looked up, and his sore mouth fell open when he spotted the small ring wrapped around the base of Atticus’ cock.

Atticus grinned devilishly.

“Nothing is worth waking me up at night, Sherlock. Not even a case.”

Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed. “You… you weren’t going to come at all.”

Atticus shook his head.

“No, I am going to come. Look at you.” He pressed his foot against Sherlock’s purpling cock. Precome was now gushing from the tip and Sherlock was now torn between wanting to come and wanting it to continue.

“Oh, you’re so pretty when you’re confused.” Atticus smiled as he removed the cock ring. “How didn’t you notice this?” He asked, holding the ring up for Sherlock to see properly.

“Honestly, Sherlock, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re on drugs again. Look at you.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him, dazed. His head hurt, and he was beginning to feel dizzy.

“You’re miles away. I could do anything I like with you. I’m surprised your friend Molly didn’t realise, but I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time she’s seen you like this.”

Atticus bent over, his face mere millimetres away from Sherlock’s.

“And the best part is, you won’t remember this in the morning. You’ll let me do it all over again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So Atticus is a bit not good isn’t he?
> 
> Please let me know what you thought! Any criticism is good criticism and it really helps me out.
> 
> Thank you for reading this far! 
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! How’re you doing? This’ll be the last chapter for a week or so as I’m going on holiday, but I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As ever, please let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, and it really helps me out. 
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x

Sherlock was surprised when John climbed into the car with Bill instead of hopping into a taxi with him.

“Where’re you going?” He asked, standing on the pavement as John clipped Rosie into the baby seat in the back of Bill’s car. 

They were stood outside Kings Cross station, having caught the train back from Cambridge almost immediately after John and Sherlock’s argument outside Georgina’s house.

John and Sherlock had barely spoken to one another as they waited for the train, and the only time Sherlock had talked to John on the train was when he’d asked if John wanted a coffee from the onboard shop. Sherlock supposed it a positive that John had accepted.

However, at Kings Cross dark thunder clouds were oozing across the sky. A raindrop hit Sherlock’s cheek. He ignored it. There were far more important things to worry about than a little bit of rain.

“To Bill’s,” John replied curtly, pressing a kiss to Rosie’s forehead before straightening up. Rosie was snoozing quietly. She’d fallen asleep as they boarded the train and hadn’t woken up since. John knew he was in for a Watson-level meltdown later on, when he was tired and Rosie couldn’t get his full attention. He hoped that Bill and Bill’s wife, Hannah, would prove a good enough distraction for her. By nature Rosie was endlessly fascinated with new people.

John straightened up and turned towards the confused looking detective who was frowning, not unlike a child who’d just been told they couldn’t have their favourite sweets.

“But… we’re on a case.” Sherlock tilted his head to the side. Thunder rolled through the air and a man in a suit jogged passed, holding that day’s copy of the Evening Standard above his head as though it would shelter him from the imminent downpour. A loud announcement from the British Transport Police rung through the air.

“See it. Say it. Sorted.”

John spoke over it.

“Not right now, Sherlock,” John said, closing the back car door.

Bill was sat in the driver’s seat, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Sherlock could see him fumbling with the nobs for the radio. The muffled beat of Ariana Grande started, and Bill quickly turned it off again as the sudden loud music woke Rosie up.

“I can’t put the case on hold,” Sherlock replied, surprised that John would even suggest such a thing. He couldn’t understand why John was suddenly being so cold with him. He’d fucked up in the past, but John usually bounced right back when he realised that Sherlock was ultimately in the right. Now, John wasn’t even meeting his gaze. Surely this couldn’t because he’d upset Georgina?

“Good luck with Barclay,” John told him, partially ignoring him. “Let me know how it goes.”

“John, what’s going on?” Sherlock asked growing more desperate. “You’re not this annoyed with me because of Georgina, are you? Because I’ve said and done a lot worse to suspects in the past, so –“

“Sherlock, drop it.”

“Why is Bill picking you up?” Sherlock challenged, and he watched as something in John’s demeanour snapped. It was if the strings that had been holding John taught all day had suddenly been cut loose and he was trying to find his balance.

Sherlock watched, startled, as John rounded on him.

Perhaps the strings hadn’t been holding him up as much as they had been holding John back from launching at Sherlock.

“I’m leaving Mary, alright?” John pressed against Sherlock’s face, barely audible as anger seeped into his voice. “Tonight. Bill’s here because he’s looking after Rosie while I do it. It’s over. We’re finished.” He took a step backward, seemingly coming to himself again as he huffed out a hot, steamy breath, before taking to the warpath again when Sherlock blinked stupidly.

“I’m miserable, Sherlock!” He said, his hands shooting up into the air as he admitted defeat. “I’m so miserable. And I have been for a very long time. Mary… Mary shot you, and as much as you want me to I can never forgive her for that, but you’ve got it all wrapped up in your head that it was surgery or whatever the fuck-“

Fists clenched at his side, John rounded on a large plant-pot, of which there were several serving as decoration across the station, and kicked it, hard.

Sherlock remained silent, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

John took a great, shuddering breath.

“And I stayed with her,” he said, so quietly it was barely audible. “I stayed with the bitch and for what? For the nuclear family? For Rosie? No. I stayed with her because you wanted me to.”

“I didn’t want you to,” Sherlock replied quietly, trying to meet John’s gaze, but John was glaring too intently at the offending plant pot to even look at Sherlock. “But I thought it was best-“

“She was an assassin, Sherlock! And I’m pretty sure she still bloody is the number of times she galavants off into the night with no warning. Either that or she’s cheating, either way I’m finding it really hard to give a shit and maybe that’s because I don’t love her anymore or maybe it’s because my anti-depressants are fucking with my ability to be emotionally rational-“

Sherlock frowned. “That’s not how anti-depressants work-“

“I know it isn’t!” John shouted, squaring up to Sherlock again. The plant pot breathed a sigh of relief. Despite being several inches shorter, Sherlock felt minuscule in comparison to John and John’s anger. He didn’t back away, though. To back away would mean to prevent John from saying what he clearly needed to say.

“I know that’s not how anti-depressants work, Sherlock, I know. But how else do you explain my letting her walk all over me all the time? Manipulate me into living in an area I hate, in a house that I hate, living in a home which feels more like Alcatraz.”

Sherlock remained silent for a few moments, weighing his options. In the end, he went for the truth.

“You’ve said why you’re miserable, John. You know the reason. You’ve seen it in your patients, in our clients, often enough, haven’t you?”

John took a step back, fists clenched at his sides. Sherlock was convinced that if John were capable, fire and smoke would be blazing from John’s nose; his gaze was that searing and his voice was that heavy with anger.

“Mary has been manipulating you,” Sherlock told him, his own voice cool like the breeze by the beach on a calm summer’s day. “Psychological abuse is still abuse, John. Manipulation falls under that category. And you’ve been so busy worrying about other things: Rosie, Rosie’s relationship with Mary, your job, probably your mortgage, that you’ve failed to see what’s been happening to yourself. I presume the anti-depressants are a recent development?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, looking down at the paving slabs beneath him.

“I’ve been on them three times in my life,” he replied. “Once when I was shot. Again after you jumped, and again 5 months ago, after Rosie was born.”

John stole a glance at the car, worry etched into his face.

“She’s so small,” he whispered, and Sherlock knew he was now talking about Rosie. “And so helpless, Sherlock. I need to protect her. And that’s not guns blazing like when I’m on a case with you, it’s making sure that we’re using the right fabric softener for her clothes, or checking that there are always nappies on hand. It’s… it’s a different type of work than I’m used to, but she’s perfect. And I should be so excited about bringing her up into this world but I can’t, because I’m scared for her.

“Mary doesn’t care about Rosie. She has her heart set on a version of her life which goes against everything she ever was and still is. She chose the house, she chose how we decorated it; every decision we’re supposed to make as a family she’s judge, jury, and executioner. I don’t know what I expected married life to be like, what I expected raising a family to be like, but it wasn’t this.”

John shook his head.

Sherlock wanted to say something, desperately, but John let out a low, quiet laugh.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t deduce all of this.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side.

Why hadn’t he deduced it all? He asked himself, frowning slightly. What John said made sense, and Sherlock knew that he’d seen it happening right before his eyes. But he couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t acted on it.

—

John had never seen Sherlock more confused, and that settled it for him. Something, some ugly, mutated monster in the pit of John’s gut churned and gave an almighty battle cry and he felt the chainmail slink over his heart.

Sherlock had never really cared about John and John’s relationships, John realised. If he was even slightly interested he would have noticed that John had been miserable for months. The fact that Sherlock Holmes, the world’s greatest detective and his best friend hadn’t noticed that John was depressed and desperately looking for an escape hurt more than any comment Mary could make, or any bullet to pierce his shoulder.

He’d thought that his and Sherlock’s relationship had improved. He knew that Sherlock was human, but he wasn’t sure when he’d decided that Sherlock wasn’t actually a robot.

He had thought, for a brief moment, that Sherlock cared for him. Not in a romantic fashion but at least as a friend.

Now, John realised he was wrong.

John could feel a lump in his throat. He definitely felt like a teenager again. It was like having a crush who didn’t know he existed. Or when he spilled his secrets to a close friend and it turned out they weren’t listening to a word he said. He felt like he’d been stabbed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock asked, his voice flat.

“Because we don’t do that,” John bit back. “We don’t talk about our feelings.”

Suddenly, and quite unexpected to both himself and Sherlock, a switch in John’s brain flicked over and all John could see was red. It blurred his vision, and he felt his heart pound harder under the metal mesh protecting it, urging him on. The words that threw themselves at Sherlock weren’t practiced, weren’t rehearsed. John let blind fury control his voice box as he ripped into Sherlock.

“I didn’t even know you were gay until today! After all these fucking years, you didn’t think to tell me, once? Were you ashamed of yourself for whoring yourself out for drug money, is that it? Is that why you didn’t tell me? And Atticus! How could you not tell me that you have a boyfriend?! Is that what all the bruises are from? Is he doing that to you? You’re supposed to talk to me! We’re friends! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

—

Sherlock looked around quickly in case anyone had overheard. Contrary to what John thought, Sherlock’s sexuality was known to only five people. Irene, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Atticus, and John.

And while he didn’t particularly care whether people knew or not, he’d rather have people know because he wanted them to know, rather than people knowing without Sherlock having told them himself. And he knew that, given the nature of the information, his sexuality would be strung out across the tabloids and click bait articles for the less-than-pleasant journalists to taunt him with.

He didn’t care what people thought of him for being gay. He just wanted to steer clear of the newspapers as much as feasibly possible. It hadn’t been too fun the last two times.

“I did tell you,” Sherlock whispered urgently, which startled John somewhat. “I told you when we first met. I told you that women weren’t my area and I wasn’t dating a man.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that you’re gay from that?!” John roared. “You never once dated anyone, in all the time we lived together. It nearly gave me a heart attack when I saw Janine coming out of your bedroom, and it turned out that you weren’t even dating her! You were using her! I thought I’d made a mistake having that third cup of coffee –“

A lightbulb flicked on in Sherlock’s brain, and faster than the flash of lightning that illuminated the sky he was drawn away from their argument and was thrust headfirst back into the case.

“John, you’re brilliant!” He gasped, cupping John’s cheeks.

John looked about ready to punch him, but before he could say or do anything of the sort, Sherlock had taken off down the street.

—

John sighed heavily, glaring at the detectives back as he turned a corner.

“You alright, mate?” Bill asked, standing up and leaning on the car door. Thunder spears smacked the windshield and ran down it. Rosie screamed as more thunder signalled the start of the downpour.

“Yes.”

John climbed into the passengers seat and stared unseeing at the rain slashing against the window. Bill started the engine, and they drove away.

—

Rosie stopped crying. She watched the back of her dad’s head with benign interest, her tiny fists balled up, ready to fight the thunder if it shouted at her again. She wanted to grab something, but there was nothing in reach.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Bill asked, putting the hand brake on. There was always traffic along Marylebone Road, and the weather seemed to make it worse as taxi drivers took to the street in search of pedestrians who needed saving from the rain.

Bill had caught snippets of John and Sherlock’s debate, but between the rain and the thunder and Rosie’s wailing, there wasn’t a great deal he could hear easily enough to know for certain the topic of the argument. He presumed it was something to do with the case.

John nodded and, like his daughter, his hands were also scrunched up into balls but unlike his daughter, he didn’t want to grab anything, except perhaps the throat of a consulting detective to throttle him.

“Okay.” Bill nodded, accidentally stalling the car as they began moving again. “So, we’ll drop Rosie off with Hannah, then we’ll head to yours. Do you have your things packed?”

John nodded again. “I’ve been packed for months,” he said, “I don’t think Mary has realised.”

Bill didn’t seem convinced, but he kept quiet about it.

“I just want to make sure you’ve thought this through completely,” he said.

“No offence, Bill,” John started, “but I don’t need to be talked out of this. I need to leave her. We need to start our lives afresh, me and Rosie, I mean.” John rubbed his eyes using the palms of his hands. “Shit. I need to find somewhere to live.”

In the back of the car, Rosie gurgled. John shifted in his seat to face her, and was met by an enormous pout.

“I know, sunshine, I know,” he said. “But we’re nearly at Bill’s and then you can see Hannah!”

—

 

SH: I need to talk to your brother. - SH (16:47)  
BB: OK. When? (16:54)  
SH: ASAP. – SH (16:56)  
BB: He’ll be at mine 19:00. Pizza night. Come over at 20:00? Grays Inn Road. (17:00)

—

SH: I’m confused. – SH (17:06)  
IA: Who are you and how did you get Sherlock’s phone? X (17:08)  
SH: I don’t have time for games, Adler. John’s divorcing Mary. – SH (17:08)

—

Sherlock rolled his eyes when his phone began ringing. He shoved it against his ear.

“If I send a text initiating a conversation I don’t expect a phone call in response. It defeats the purpose of the text,” he snapped.

He was walking back to Baker Street from Kings Cross. He wasn’t needed at Beatrix’s until 20:00, and there was little he could do in the meantime seeing as John had swanned off with Bill. So, he began walking, seeing as he’d already started running to begin with. It wasn’t an especially long walk, but after a train journey he felt that he needed to stretch his legs.

“Sorry, Sherlock, but some conversations are just so important that they have to happen on the phone,” Irene replied. “Where are you?”

“British Library.”

“Right. Tell me what happened.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then launched into a recount of the events as he’d seen them. He was a detective, he shouldn’t have to do this. He walked aimlessly towards Euston, stopping along the way to dump some loose change into a homeless man’s cup.

“He was annoyed that I didn’t tell him about Atticus, and I think he was annoyed that I prostituted myself for drug money while at university. He didn’t even know me then. How can he be annoyed by something he wasn’t even there for? And then he went off on this spiel about how I didn’t tell him I was gay-“

“Didn’t you?” Irene asked, surprised. “I thought it was obvious.”

“I did tell him,” Sherlock huffed in annoyance, “it’s hardly my fault if he doesn’t listen. Then he said something about how we don’t communicate and that he’s leaving Mary and that I should have deduced it and urgh.” Sherlock kicked a discarded sandwich packet. “He’s on anti-depressants but who isn’t, really? Then he left with Bill, who was waiting for us, by the way. Who is Bill, anyway?”

Irene giggled.

“Alright, hold off on the jealously of Bill for a second,” she said. “John said he’s surprised you didn’t deduce it?”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock,” Irene sighed, clearly smiling. Sherlock didn’t appreciate it. “I don’t think John’s talking about his marriage. I think he’s talking about himself.”

Sherlock paused. A schoolgirl collided with the back of him and she swore loudly as she moved around him.

“Talking about himself? What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, unfazed by the collision. John was definitely talking about his marriage with Mary.

“Sherlock, John’s been in love with you since you met one another. He’s annoyed that you never considered him as a romantic partner.”

Sherlock laughed.

“Don’t be daft, John’s the straightest man I know. He’s not interested in men. Why would I ever even consider the notion of a relationship with him if he’s not gay?”

“Because you love him.”

Sherlock began to splutter a protest, but Irene cut him off.

“Oh, come off it. We both know you’ve already planned your wedding. Wasn’t the whole reason you first slept with Atticus because you were busy pining after John? Hm?”

“I…”

“John’s bisexual, Sherlock. Maybe pan, I’m not sure. Either way, John is absolutely not completely heterosexual. The point is you’ve been so used to seeing John with women, to sulking every time you’ve seen John with a woman and being a drama queen about it, that you never really looked at what’s actually been going on. The moment you start sulking you ignore everything that’s going on around you and focus on yourself, which is the wrong thing to do. Honestly… You two, bloody, men! How hard is it to just talk to one another? Christ almighty.”

“You’ve only met him, what, twice? Three times? How would you know?”

“Those handful of times were enough for me to see that John does not handle jealousy well. Sherlock, John’s hopelessly in love with you. But it’s the one thing that bloody brilliant brain of yours has failed to observe.”

Sherlock was silent, thinking over what Irene had told him.

A few paces in front of him saw the turning off into Baker Street, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to walk down it.

How had he not noticed that John was, according to Irene, in love with him? And, if it did transpire that John really did love Sherlock, did Sherlock actually love him back? Properly? And was it the love that John wanted and deserved, or some twisted amalgamation of it?

He hung up on Irene without warning, and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

The rain was falling thick and fast now, soaking through his coat and causing his curls to stick to his forehead. He walked past the turning to Baker Street and continued walking.

It was true what Irene had said. Sherlock did find Atticus because he was pining after John, a man who he couldn’t have. He hadn’t noticed when he’d started pining for John, though he believed it was when he’d interrupted John proposing to Mary. Sherlock’s stomach jolted at the thought.

He had indeed missed John while he was untangling and cutting the strings of Moriarty’s web of criminality. He had missed the company, the companionship. Crouched in a dark alleyway, gun in hand while he waited for his target, Sherlock had longed for the company of John. For him to crack a joke, for his gun to be joining Sherlock’s on the stake-out.

He missed John when it had started snowing in Siberia. When the pearly white flakes had fluttered down and Sherlock found himself wrapped up in a park with a cup of steaming hot chocolate, nursing the cup as he tried to keep warm. He’d wanted John to keep him occupied, to remind him to drink his drink instead of forget about it.

He had missed John when he was in Paris. He’d been standing at the entrance to the Eurostar, at war with himself to not buy a ticket and simply go home. The assassin he was trailing would be sure to kill again, and Sherlock would catch him them. But in the moment, he longed for Baker Street and the person who awaited him there. He was so close.

Sherlock rubbed his forehead, trying to think. But every time he tried a new thought about John appeared like an annoying internet pop-up and all of his other more reasonable, more rational thoughts were blocked by John Watson’s stupid face.

Sherlock groaned loudly and punched a wall, eliciting a startled yelp from an unassuming pedestrian. His hand throbbed and his knuckles were still white from the impact, the grazes and cuts acquired from the brickwork of the building he’d just punched waiting for the blood to rush out of them.

Sherlock took a deep breath as pins and needles soared through his hand. It was almost definitely broken.

He loved John Watson.

But John was convinced Sherlock didn’t give a shit about him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that chapter 6 would be the last one for a week but why not have two chapters in one day? :) As ever, this fic is dedicated to the wonderful Lisa.
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos, they mean so much to me and it’s really great to receive responses! So, thank you for reading this far!
> 
> See you next week
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x

Bill parked up outside John’s house, mounting the pavement to allow cars to drive along the narrow street. They’d dropped Rosie off with Hannah, who doted on Rosie and Rosie knew it well. She latched on to Hannah the moment they’d entered the small house, and Hannah couldn’t be more thrilled. Her and Bill were expecting. They hadn’t told John that nugget of information yet, but Hannah wanted all the experience she could get with a baby before her own arrived.

John knew that Bill and Hannah were hoping to start a family in the near future, and while he wished them well and all the luck in the world, he couldn’t help but feel a little pessimistic. They were a cute couple, and they were good people, but he’d thought that about himself and Mary before everything had really kicked off.

“Hey,” Bill turned in his chair to face John. He’d left his keys in, ready to start the engine at a moment’s notice. “Remember what we planned?”

John nodded and closed his eyes. He found it helped if they were in the changing rooms of their local rugby pitch, and Bill was reminding the team of the strategy for the match. When he opened his eyes again, however, he was forced back into the reality of sitting in Bill’s car in Elsenham Street, outside his and Mary’s marital home.

His stomach lurched.

John was usually very good with break-ups. During his army years he’d gained the nickname ‘Three-Continents Watson’, and with that came a lot of awkwardly explaining why, after several nights of intense passion and a couple of nice dinners, they couldn’t go on. It worked for him, and the ex would walk away upset, but not as sad as they probably ought to have been.

John had developed his technique at University.

After one night in Soho, he woke up the following morning completely naked with a fellow student in his bed. Memories from the previous night flashed through his brain and he groaned quietly, remembering as he’d bent the student over the desk and roughly fucked him to oblivion. It had been a very fun night. He’d used his stethoscope to bind the students hands together, which, when he considered it now, was quite inventive. At the time he was annoyed that he didn’t have anything more practical to use.

The student had wanted more. Not just more sex, but an emotional connection from John that John was not in a place to give. He liked the idea of it, definitely, but medical students rarely had time enough to themselves to sleep, let alone date anyone. John liked the occasional shag, but didn’t want the commitment.

Except many of his quests believed they would be the one to make John settle. And the student from Soho who John had thoroughly pounded over the desk was no exception.

The student had memorised John’s room number, his specific course, and who his tutors were. And he was persistent in pursuing a relationship with John. He turned up in one of John’s lectures, and at first John didn’t recognise him. The lecturer didn’t notice the new student, either, and it wasn’t until they were five lectures in that John realised who the student was. He approached him afterwards.

“Hi.” He’d tried to be friendly, but the ensuing punch caused him to reconsider his approach quite quickly.

“You’re scum,” the student seethed. He raised his fist to throw another punch at John, but John blocked it with his left elbow and grabbed the student’s other arm. Twirling the student around by his arm, John pinned him against the wall in the middle of the corridor, trapped in a tight armlock. John could feel his pulse in his nose as blood poured from it.

“Leave me alone,” he growled, right into the other student’s ear who whimpered against the wall. “I mean it. It was a one time thing. I know you’ve been following me. I don’t have time for you to be this needy.”

The student gasped quietly as John tightened his grip on his bent arm.

Mike Stamford was flailing like a fish out of water, trying to work out what to do.

“Nothing to see here,” he stammered, ushering along some other students who were walking by and whispering to one another, looking concerned. He shot John a worried glance, but John wasn’t relenting as he waited for the response of the stalker student.

“I’m sorry,” the student gasped. “I heard you were a bit of a slag and wanted to see whether you’d want to go in for seconds.”

John dropped the student’s arm.

“A slag?” He asked, a bit dumbstruck. The student turned to face him, rubbing his arm.

“Yeah. Everyone says it,” the student said, wincing. “I think you’ve broken my arm.”

“It’ll bruise,” John replied curtly. “I’m not – I’m not a slag.”

“Yes you are! You shag anyone you come into contact with. You give them a wonderful night and leave. You leave them heartbroken!” The student rummaged around in his bag, forgetting his ‘broken’ arm for a few moments, and pulled out a flyer.

It was red, with big white letters reading:

‘Have you been left heartbroken by John Watson? Join our support group. Wednesdays at 22:00, study room 33. Drinks and biscuits will be provided.’

John couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re pulling my leg,” he said, chuckling as he flipped the leaflet over to check the back. “I haven’t slept with that many people, have I?”

“The last meeting saw 27 attendees,” the student replied. “One girl is threatening to drop out unless she can transfer to a different class that you’re not in.”

John stared at him.

“That’s… wow. That’s awful. I had no idea. Can I go?” He held up the flyer. “To apologise?”

The student nodded. “Yes, but make sure you haven’t wiped away that blood. It’ll cheer a few of them up to see you’ve been injured.”

The subsequent encounter with his victims, as they called themselves, had taught John a lot about his behaviour. He hated the term victim, as it made him feel like a rapist, but accepted that that was how he’d made people feel. After a long discussion, they helped him to perfect his break-up technique so that each party went away happy.

He ended up being quite good friends with a few of them from the support group.

John took a deep breath. “I need to get this over with.”

“You do,” Bill agreed.

“Right.”

John climbed out of the car and braced himself, watching the front door as though it were a bull about to charge at him.

Pulling himself together, he approached the door and unlocked it.

He’d been in a war, for God’s sake. He could tell one assassin he wanted a divorce.

—

Mary was curled up on the sofa, TV remote in hand as she flicked through the channels. She yawned and dusted the crumbs from her packet of digestives off of her t-shirt and onto the floor. John hung in the doorway, watching her from the shadows.

“Mary,” he said, and Mary jumped.

“Jesus Christ, when did you come in?” She gasped, hand over her chest. John knew she was faking it. “Where’s Rosie?”

“With friends,” John replied, making his way into the lounge and standing between Mary and the TV.

“Mrs Hudson?”

John shrugged, his hands in his jeans pockets.

Mary sighed. “Alright, but you can phone the sitters to explain why she won’t be there tomorrow.” She settled on BBC News, where they were discussing a dam collapsing in Derbyshire.

John leaned over and flicked the TV off by the switch on the wall.

“Mary, we need to talk.”

Before he’d entered the house he’d felt sick. Now, he felt stronger. He felt ready.

Mary straightened up, using her hands to push herself up and unstick her legs from beneath her. She didn’t seem worried, or concerned, but bored.

“Why are you doing this, John?” She sighed. “You know you can’t raise Rosie by yourself.”

“I already am,” John replied. He was surprised by how calm they both were. If anything, Mary seemed completely relaxed at the conversation, though she did blow out air as John uttered his last response.

“Oh ouch, John. I do things for her. I feed her and clean her and look after her.”

“But you don’t care for her,” John replied. “You don’t give a shit about her. You know you don’t.”

Mary rolled her eyes and flopped back down. “Change the record, John. I care about Rosie. She’s my daughter.”

“No you don’t!” John snapped. “You don’t give a shit about me or Rosie. You don’t care about either of us and you never have. Everything you do you do for your own gain. You pretend to love us because it’s more hassle for you to be seen as a bad wife than it is to pose as a good one. So,” John squares his shoulders, “I’m leaving you. I’ve packed up most of my belongings. Bill’s waiting outside.”

Mary sighed and started typing something on her phone.

“Alright,” She said, not looking at him. “See you tomorrow.”

“No, Mary, you won’t,” John replied. “We’re through. Finished.”

Mary nodded. “Yes, so you’ve said,” she hummed.

“Mary, listen to me!” John shouted, growing tired of Mary’s clear disinterest. Couldn’t she see that this was truly the end of their relationship? He was finished. They were through, and it was driving him mad that she was being so blasé about it.

Mary looked up at him, still bored.

“We’re done. I’m done. I’m taking Rosie. I’m leaving.”

“Okay, so go.” Mary shrugged. “Run off back to Sherlock like you always do, like you were always going to do. Yeah, I saw that blog post you wrote. Really, John, you need to delete your trash.” She yawned and picked her nails. “‘He was my rain,’ what kind of rubbish is that, John?”

“You’ve been going through my laptop?” John stared at her. “What the hell? Why?”

“I needed to be certain that you and Sherlock weren’t conspiring against me,” Mary snapped. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You shot him!”

“Yes, I did,” Mary huffed. “And I’m never going to live it down, am I?”  
John nearly launched himself at her, his hand in a fist at his side.

“You shouldn’t have shot him, and you shouldn’t have pretended that you didn’t. But what’s worse you were going to mourn with me and then you continuously made me feel guilty about being angry at you for shooting him!” John yelled. “You tried to murder him.”

“Does it hurt?” Mary asked, standing now. “Does it hurt, knowing that he’s shagging someone else?”

John’s eyes widened.

“How the hell-“

“Oh don’t be so dense, John,” Mary groaned. “Just because you didn’t see it didn’t mean no one else did. Besides, I regularly tap both of your phones.” She held up her phone screen for John to see. “Rosie’s with Hannah, she’s just sent you a picture. Sherlock’s texting Atticus. Atticus is asking him to dinner and oooh, Sherlock’s said no.”

John rolled his eyes. “Get off our phones,” he said. “That’s a blatant breach of privacy.”

Mary shrugged. “You’d do the same.”

“I’ve never done the same,” John replied, “and you know I never would.”

Mary sighed and dropped her phone back down onto the sofa.

“Alright, then. Leave. Go.” She sat back down. “And turn the TV back on on your way out.”

—

A: Hey Gorgeous. Want to get some dinner? X (18:27)  
SH: No. – SH (18:30)  
A: Have you eaten today? X (18:31)  
SH: No. – SH (18:35)  
A: Come to mine and I’ll cook you something, or I’ll come to yours and I’ll order a takeaway. X (18:37)  
SH: I’m busy. Client at 20:00. – SH (18:43)  
A: Afterwards? I miss you. X (18:45)  
SH: Afterwards. – SH (18:47)  
A: Come to mine. Wear something sexy. X (18:49)  
SH: As if I’d wear anything else. – SH (18:52)  
A: I have something new for us to try. X (18:53)  
SH: I look forward to it. – SH (19:00)  
A: XXX (19:03)

—

Although Bill’s car was parallel parked outside John’s house, the black Mercedes which pulled level with it in the middle of the road commanded the attention of the whole street. The window rolled down as John heaved his duffel bag into Bill’s boot.

“Get in, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft drawled, before the window was rolled up again.

John ignored him, although he was surprised that Mycroft was attempting to commandeer him in person. It was normally one of his lackeys who did the dirty work for him. John thought about what an in-person visit from Mycroft would entail while he balanced Rosie’s collapsable high chair across the back shelf.

The window rolled down again.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said, a certain bite to his voice that made John grin in spite of himself. “Get in the car, or I will drive away and ensure that the divorce papers you are about to file will never go through.”

That was enough to make John unceremoniously drop the high chair he was carrying and approach the car window. He squatted down so that he was level.

“Listen here, Mycroft. I’m not running around after your brother. I’ve more important things on my mind.”

The incredible thing about Mycroft was that, though nowhere near as dramatic as his younger brother, his thoughts could be easily vocalised with a single movement. His eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch, and John knew that that was Mycroft’s equivalent of an eye roll and a challenge.

“You need to hear this, John,” he said, speaking calmly. “Sherlock is in danger.”

“Isn’t he always?”

“Not like this.” Mycroft handed John a folder.

“Presumably you know that my brother has decided to dip his toe into the toxic waste that is dating.”

The corner of John’s lips quirked upwards for a second.

“Yes, he mentioned it earlier today,” John replied, flicking through the folder. His eyes settled on a photograph of a tall, dark haired man. It was the photograph from a hospital ID card; John recognised the style. He had kind brown eyes, a crooked smile, and his nose was slightly skewed, as though it had been broken.

“That is Victor Trevor,” Mycroft said. “He works at St Bart’s Hospital. I’m sure you already know him, or are at least aware of him on a professional level. He works with Molly Hooper. And this,” he turned the page for John. This time, there was a photograph of a tall man with bright green hair. “Is Atticus Lee.”

John frowned at the photograph of Atticus, an intense hatred flaring in him at the fact that he was dating Sherlock. As if Sherlock would ever date a man with green hair. However, there was something about how the man held himself that tore John away from the searing jealousy which was threatening to tear apart his insides, and he turned the page back to Victor Trevor.

“Are… wait.” John frowned as he registered the similarities between the two people. Because they were very similar, except Victor had brown eyes, and Atticus had blue, and their noses were entirely different. “Are they brothers?”

“Worse,” Mycroft hummed. “They’re the same person.”

John’s eyes widened.

Mycroft seemed not to notice John’s response, and if he did, he ignored it.  
“Sherlock is currently dating Victor Trevor under the belief that he is Atticus Lee. And, Sherlock is currently following a particular thread which will lead him directly to Trevor. At the back of the folder I’ve given you is the autopsy report on Doctor Blumstein. Evidence points to Trevor being directly involved in, if not the cause of, Blumstein’s death. Really, it’s not a difficult case. I wouldn’t have bothered looking at it if I hadn’t been so curious as to what was taking Sherlock so long to solve it. Of course I knew he was dating again, but I’d never have dreamt…” Mycroft trailed away, and John narrowed his eyes, watching Mycroft closely.

Mycroft appeared to be lost in his own thoughts for a few minutes, his eyes glassing over.

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft snapped out of it.

“Sherlock approached Molly and asked for the autopsy report. Molly gave it to him, and with it Sherlock should have been able to crack the case wide open. But he didn’t.”

John nodded slowly, trying to understand. He frowned as he skimmed over the autopsy report.

Heart attack? Check.

Cocaine in his blood? Sounds about right.

Aprotinin? Wait.

John’s brows furrowed.

“He shouldn’t have been taking Aprotinin,” he said, “that’s used for thickening blood, it’s given to patients with significant bleeds to help clotting and prevent blood loss.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know. Trevor prescribed it when Blumstein was bitten by a patient.”

“Trevor signed off on this?” John gasped, squinting as he read more. “For a bite? That’s excessive! Blumstein was already in bad shape. If he’d continued to take Aprotinin it would’ve caused a clot and – Oh.”

Realisation hit John squarely in the face.

“Trevor killed him.”

Mycroft nodded.

“You worked it out in mere minutes,” Mycroft commented. “Yet Sherlock hasn’t yet pieced the puzzle together.” Mycroft spoke dryly, as though discussing the weather and nothing as important as the well-being of his own brother. “Because Trevor is controlling Sherlock’s knowledge.”

John laughed. “How? How can anyone control Sherlock’s knowledge?” He asked. “If Sherlock wants to know something there’s not a lot which can stand in his way. And surely Sherlock would realise that he’s met this Trevor bloke. He’s a bit useless with names sometimes but he knows faces, especially in regard to a case.”

Mycroft hummed his agreement.

“Except, we have reason to believe that Sherlock has been drugged on several occasions over the course of the last week. Molly got in touch. Sherlock turned up at Bart’s in the early hours, high, and began asking questions about Doctor Blumstein. The next morning Molly texted him about it, but reported that Sherlock had no idea what she was talking about and simply stated that he was going to interview Miss Williams with you, and she should leave him alone. Care to elaborate?”

The wind picked up around them again, hurtling down the narrow street and nearly blowing the folder out of John’s hands. He clung onto it.

“He hasn’t been high when I’ve seen him,” John replied slowly, thinking it over. “But he has been behaving oddly. Oddly for Sherlock, I mean,” he added hastily. “Wait,” he paused, looking up at Mycroft. “You don’t think this Trevor person is drugging him, do you?”

Mycroft let out a deep sigh.

“Trevor has had ample opportunity while posing as Atticus, and given their history, it is probable that he has been drugging Sherlock.”

John nodded, then paused.

“Wait, their history?” He queried, closing the envelope. “What history?”

Mycroft opened the car door again, and slid over to the far side.

“I suggest you get in, John,” Mycroft said. “This conversation may take a while.”

John climbed in and sat down. The driver began driving again.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m back. This is just a short chapter but I wanted to give you guys something sooner rather than later.
> 
> As ever, this fic is dedicated to Lisa :)
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x

“Mr Holmes!” Beatrix opened the door and pecked Sherlock’s cheek, the way the elite always do when greeting a guest. “Come in! Barclay’s upstairs.”

Most of the long stretches of terraced houses in North London followed a very similar layout. Beatrix’s house was nearly identical to 221B, except it wasn’t quite as squashed, and was far better kept. While Baker Street’s staircases were wide enough for one person, Sherlock estimated that two people could venture upstairs while walking side-by-side. There wasn’t a spec of dust to be seen.

Sherlock stepped into the hallway, which was an overly white affair with beechwood floorboards and matching vanity, which supported a large, ornate mirror. An upholstered lilac chair was tucked into the corner. Several vases sat on the vanity, with great bouquets of deep plum tulips and white orchids bursting from the narrow glass cylinders.

“They’re from well-wishers,” Beatrix told him, a moment of sadness etched into her face before she raced off upstairs. Sherlock followed, but he didn’t run.

Along the staircase were pictures. It was quite the contrast to Georgina William’s flat. While Georgina’s flat had generic pictures of cows and nature, Beatrix’s pictures were all pictures of herself with smatterings of friends smeared throughout. There was an image of Beatrix at Ascot, posing with a glass of champagne as she overlooked the race track. There was another picture of her in a rather nice garden, wearing a silly hat and a light blue dress. Sherlock supposed it had been some wedding.

The shabby chic looked stretched up to the first floor, but the wall of the corridor had been knocked through to create a large open plan living space and kitchen. A door to the bathroom veered off to the right, followed almost immediately by a second door, which Sherlock estimated was Beatrix’s bedroom.

A large flatscreen TV hung off the wall, and beneath it was a coffee table. Like the vanity, the coffee table also held slightly too many flowers. They all fit into the room’s colour scheme; baby breath whites and great purple allium flowers stood bold, proud under the fluorescent white LED bulbs which tricked the room into believing it was midday.

Sherlock needed to sneeze.

There was a long lilac sofa, matching the chair in the hallway, which a teenage boy was sprawled across. He looked about 17. Tall and gangly, one the teenager’s legs was held up on the backrest of the sofa and the second planted firmly on the floor. A half-eaten pizza, still in the box, rested by his foot.

“Barclay!” Beatrix said, rushing over to her brother and man handling him into a more dignified sitting position.

Barclay grumbled something inaudible, and leant back across the sofa, shoving his sister out of the way. His eyes fell on Sherlock.

Barclay was nearly identical to Beatrix. Their eyes were the same bright blue, and they shared platinum blonde hair. Barclay’s cheeks were fair swallower than Beatrix’s, however, and his jaw bone was more pronounced.

Sherlock was well acquainted with watching other people, to observing them, but it was rare for him to be on the receiving end.

Barclay looked Sherlock up and down, from the messy curls on the top of his head to the mud splattered across the front of his shoes.

Barclay sighed.

“Belstaff?” He asked, nodding to the coat. “I suppose it works, though with your frame I wouldn’t have gone for anything so bulky. You have the figure, why not show it off? But the suit works well.” Barclay nodded, then paused for a few moments, looking Sherlock up and down again. “I say, there’s a charming little two-piece being offered by Etro at the moment. It’s a sort of plum colour, isn’t it, Bea? It’s very nice.”

Barclay smiled up at Sherlock, his arms out stretched around the back of the sofa with one leg crossed over the other. He was quite possibly the most confident 17-year old Sherlock had ever encountered, and Sherlock had to smile to himself as he imagined John’s reaction.

“What a little prick… His Dad’s dead and he’s criticising your clothes? That coat is worth more than my car…”

“You don’t have a car.”

“Mary’s car.”

John’s voice had hung in the air like a fine trail of cigarette smoke, and Sherlock mentally swiped through it. The smoke dispersed.

This wasn’t about John. This was about Doctor Blumstein and his bratty adolescent children.

Sherlock recollected himself.

“Mr Blumstein,” Sherlock said curtly. “I am here to discuss your father’s murder, not my choice in clothing.”

Barclay pouted, but sat a little straighter.

“Murder?” Beatrix sat down next to Barclay. “So you believe he was murdered? What about that threat?” Her eyes were wide and red. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work out that she’d been crying on and off for the past few hours, perhaps before Barclay had arrived, Sherlock ventured.

“I do believe he was murdered, Miss Blumstein,” Sherlock replied. “And I know how. However, what I’m more focused on now is why your brother believed your father had to die.”

Beatrix gasped. “Barclay!” She turned to face her younger brother, who was glaring at Sherlock. “Barclay! Please tell me you didn’t –“

“Of course I bloody didn’t,” Barclay snapped. “Mr Holmes, I’m sure you’re aware that I have a phobia of blood-“ he launched into his explanations of why he didn’t actually kill his father while Beatrix babbled through tears.

Sherlock chuckled dryly.

“Oh, no, I’m not saying that you killed your father, Mr Blumstein,” Sherlock hummed, “but that you expressed an interest in his untimely demise before it occurred.”

Barclay scowled at him. Beatrix grabbed at Barclay’s hand.

“Please, Bar,” she whispered urgently, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Tell Mr Holmes what happened. Please.”

Barclay shrugged her off, and Sherlock smirked.

“Alright,” Barclay said, readjusting himself on the sofa. “Mr Holmes, why don’t you take a seat?” He gestured to a squashy bean bag in the corner of the room.

“I’ll stand, if it’s all the same to you.”

Barclay shrugged.

“Suit yourself. Dad was a cunt,” Barclay told him plainly. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. They were well rehearsed words.

“Barclay! Don’t say that!”

“Oh, shut up, Bea, it’s true,” Barclay groaned. “Dad was a cunt. He was anti-abortion, anti-gay marriage, gave loads of money to gross political organisations like the Leave Campaign and UKIP and whatever else. I’m fairly certain he was put a bit of cash towards Cambridge Analytica, too, if you get my drift.” He looked up at Sherlock expectantly, who nodded to signal that he understood.

“Politics, Sherlock,” came John’s voice in his ear, “this generation, Barclay’s generation, are very opinionated about politics. The Leave Campaign is about Brexit; they want to leave the EU. UKIP is a political party, they’re a little controversial. Cambridge Analytica harvested people’s data and used it to create propaganda to persuade them to vote a certain way. Presidential Elections and the like. Last I checked they were under investigation. Either way, these are being issues in politics at the moment.”

Sherlock nodded, taking in what phantom John had said and half aware of Barclay still talking.

“Dad was vile and I spent most of my teenage years miserable with that bloody Georgina girl because she was the only one not so obsessed by bloody tainted money and where it was going.”

Beatrix was sobbing quietly and shaking her head. “No, he wasn’t. No.”

“Yes he was, Bea,” Barclay snapped. “And incase you didn’t notice he was completely sexist. That’s why all that stuff with Mum happened. She wanted a career and dad told her that she was just a baby machine, so mum…” he trailed away. “Mum went and got sterilised and Dad, well, dad got angry. Really angry.”

“Don’t,” Beatrix whispered urgently. “Please Barclay, don’t.”

Barclay shook his head.

“My Dad was a racist, Mr Holmes. He was sexist, he was homophobic. He didn’t believe anyone should have rights if they weren’t a white cis male and Beatrix, for fucks sake, stop crying! You’d have never dated a woman if he was still around!”

Sherlock spotted a pack of tissues on the coffee table and offered them to Beatrix. She thanked him and blew her nose. Barclay rolled his eyes.

“So you didn’t like your father’s views,” Sherlock said, his voice level and calm. “And you expressed this to someone. Someone who thought they’d help you out.”

Barclay nodded slowly. “Yes… How do you know that…?”

“Well it obviously wasn’t you who killed him, and I would say you’re not entirely guilty in his death,” Sherlock told him.

Beatrix sighed heavily, relieved.

“So,” Sherlock sat on the edge of the coffee table and brought his hands together, then tucked them under his nose. “Who did you tell that you wished your father were dead?”

Barclay sunk in his chair, thinking. Slowly, he straightened again and began shaking his head. He used the armchair to push himself up. “I don’t… I couldn’t have been him.”

“Him?” Sherlock asked. “Who?”

Barclay glanced at Beatrix.

“Urm.” Barclay shifted in his seat and sat up again, clearly uncomfortable. “Urm, Bea is in medical school and she’s doing a couple of placements. One placement was a stint in the morgue with this bloke and, urm, I went to meet her for lunch one day but she was being held up and me and this guy started talking. He worked in the morgue and we became quite good friends.”

“Barclay, I need a name,” Sherlock pushed him softly. “If this man is capable of murdering your father he’s capable of murdering others, others who probably don’t deserve to die.” Barclay kept glancing at Beatrix, whose eyes suddenly widened and she grabbed Barclay’s hand again.

“Victor,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on Barclay. One of her space buns had come loose.

Barclay nodded.

“It can’t-“

“Honestly, Bea, that man has done some seriously fucked up shit,” Barclay said. “More than you know.”

“But, he’s… Victor’s my friend. We went clubbing together the other day.” Beatrix’s voice was barely audible as she sniffed, pulling and ripping at the worn tissue in her hands.

Sherlock nodded, urging her to continue.

She took a deep breath, not taking her eyes off Sherlock.

“I went clubbing with Victor. The idiot dyed his hair green… god knows why. Wanted to see whether he could pull with it or whatever. He’s always doing stupid stuff like that. But, urm, dad had just died and I needed to let off some steam so he offered to take me to out. Anyway, I got talking to this woman, really gorgeous.” She sighed, looking up at the ceiling. She wrung her hands together. “Like, really gorgeous. Way too old for me, but still. A girl can dream, right? Gorgeous.”

“For fucks sake, Bea,” Barclay huffed, “this isn’t your diary. Mr Holmes doesn’t want to know what’s in your wank bank.”

Beatrix shot him a glare

“And she started talking about you,” she nodded at Sherlock, “and, and about that man you, urm, I think his name was John?”

Sherlock suddenly felt cold. It was as though his blood suddenly had ice shards forming in each vein.

The vodka he’d consumed had cracked the lens of his mental camera, but slowly he was putting the broken fragments together. Irene, sitting in the booth with that blonde girl basically in her lap.

The blonde girl smiled at him as he turned away from the dance floor: Beatrix.

“Victor was dancing with you, and the woman I was talking to said that she was worried about you and that you’re a really good detective and I thought that if anyone could help me it’d be you.”

Beatrix wiped her nose on the back of her hand, forgetting about her tissue.

“And Victor vanished. Which is rude, by the way. You don’t abandon your friends on a night out like that. But the gorgeous woman called me a cab, and the next morning I came to yours.”

Sherlock stood.

“I should have enough evidence once I get the autopsy report to put Trevor behind bars for a very long time,” Sherlock told them both. “In the mean time, I want you both to go and stay with your grandparents, or whoever. Whoever will give you biscuits.”

Beatrix nodded and stood. She hesitated for a moment, then hugged Sherlock tightly.

“Thank you for helping us.”

Sherlock blinked, a little taken aback, and hugged her carefully. Barclay grabbed Beatrix’s hand and pulled her away, for which Sherlock was thankful.

“I’ll be in touch,” Sherlock said, nodding his farewell before turning to leave. As he turned, his coat caught one of the vases and he just about caught it was the bouquet of purple buddleia poured onto the ground.

“I’ve got it,” Barclay said, quickly picking them up. “I’ll send you a link to that suit.”

—

Sherlock typed out a quick text as he climbed into the back of the cab.

SH: Meet me at Baker Street ASAP. (21:03)  
JW: Already there. Kettle is boiling. (21:04)

Sherlock smiled to himself and pocketed his phone. He looked out the window as they sped towards Baker Street; the rain was letting up and while it had already grown dark, the navy blue sky was a welcome change to the continuous grey.

John was at Baker Street.

Why?

Had him and Bill fallen out?

Was Rosie with him?

Sherlock groaned when he hopped out of the cab and saw a black Mercedes parked outside Speedy’s café. He chucked a few notes at the driver, then clambered out.

“Sherlock.”

The window of the Mercedes had been rolled down, but Sherlock ignored the car and ignored the man speaking to him. He pulled his keys out and unlocked the front door.

The car pulled away as Sherlock closed the door behind him. The flat felt warmer; Sherlock could smell the burning wood of the fire as he approached the staircase, and he could hear John bustling around upstairs.

He smiled and rushed upstairs, keen to drag John back into the case.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Long time, no see. Sorry for partially abandoning this fic. I reached the point where I hated it and had to do some heavy editing. If you’re starting this fic again from chapter 9, I’d highly recommend starting from the beginning. I’m sorry.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> \- indigospacehopper x

“Are you coming in?”

“No.”

“The water is lovely…”

“And smelly. And full of germs. Do you know how many people urinate in swimming pools?” 

“Oh, get over yourself. You’ve chased criminals down sewers before.”

Sherlock scrunched up his face. John was standing on the pool edge, holding Rosie in his arms as she scrambled to get to the water. Sherlock sat in the bleachers overlooking the pool, on the closest row. 

“I’ll wait here. The locks of the lockers can be picked so easily, anyone could steal your phone. It’s best that I look after it.”

John narrowed his eyes. “My phone is in the locker.”

“Is it?” Sherlock drawled, pulling it out of his pocket and showing John. “See? Go and enjoy your paddle in piss, John.”

—

They were at a quarry. Deep blue waters rippled as the wind dashed across it and John was about to jump, but Sherlock caught the back of John’s collar just in time. 

“Don’t! The currents! The currents, John! Quarry waters are death traps!” 

“But –“ John protested, watching as the killer swam across the quarry lake. He shrugged Sherlock off and grabbed a jagged rock from the ground. 

“John!” Sherlock smacked it out of John’s hand, anticipating what he was about to do. “Let him go.”

John’s eyes widened. 

“What?!”

“I said let him go,” Sherlock repeated. He stood at John’s side as the man reached the steep bank and was immediately swept asunder by a hidden current. Sherlock shivered.

“I’ve called the necessary people,” he said quietly. He turned on his heel and walked back towards the (stolen) police car.

—

John was bustling around the lounge area, organising Sherlock’s numerous letters. He unstuck the knife from the mantlepiece, and sorted out the junk mail (‘Have you been injured in a car crash?’, to which Sherlock had scrawled underneath: ‘May have deleted it. Ask John’), from actual mail from potential clients. The fire warmed his legs as the soft orange glow stretched into every corner of the lounge. John plucked a pen out of the skull’s eye socket, and wrote on the car crash letter: ‘No car crash. Buy coal and fire-lighters. And milk.’

Sometimes it amazed John that the smartest man in all of London (John reasoned that Mycroft was probably more intelligent, but he had pissed John off and so Sherlock was currently most smart), couldn’t remember to buy or do simple things on behalf of his own welfare. John wholly believed that Sherlock was completely oblivious to self-care and failed to understand the importance of it. He supposed that they wouldn’t be about to have the conversation they were about to have if Sherlock was any good at self-care.

What Mycroft had said had made John’s heart ache, and it still ached as he stoked the fire.

He couldn’t believe that the man he knew had once been capable of the things he’d done. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t known - hadn’t seen. As he churned the flaming pieces of coal his stomach churned with them. 

He felt sick to his core.

“Hello.”

Sherlock stood in the doorway, smiling lop-sidedly as John turned to look at him. John cracked a smile. It was such a contrast, such a beautiful way to assuage John’s thoughts away from the murky depths in which they’d fallen. 

“You’re cheerful,” John commented, nodding towards the cup of tea he’d placed on the table. It was the least he could do.

Sherlock tugged off his scarf and hung it over the door-handle, before dropping down into his black armchair, cup of tea in hand.

“Well, I have much reason to be,” Sherlock chirruped. “I do believe I’ve just solved this case, and you’re here to help me carry it out to completion.”

Sherlock grinned. John was slightly taken aback. Sherlock had solved the case? Then he must know about Victor.

“To be fair, Sherlock, I solved the case before you. It wasn’t really difficult,” John said, taking his seat opposite him. His brows furrowed. “I’ve just been talking to Mycroft.”

“Yes, I know.”

John pursed his lips.

“You know?”

“Of course I know.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and began typing. 

John gave a deep sigh. “Right, so, you know about Victor?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. He sounded bored, as though John was a simple weatherman reminding Sherlock to take an umbrella when he next left the house.

John narrowed his eyes. 

“And you’re alright? With… it?” He asked cautiously. The warm fire was turning Sherlock’s cheeks pink, and hints of auburn twirled in his hair as the flames danced in the hearth. 

John had missed this. Missed him.

The little voice in John’s head piped up.

“Okay, I know you’re not gay but God, he really is gorgeous. Good luck.”

John sighed and straightened up as Sherlock shrugged.

“What else can I be if not alright?” Sherlock asked. “There’s no use in moping. Besides, there wasn’t any real dating. It was all sex.”

John rubbed his palms against his eyes, his elbows perched on his knees as he leaned forward.

“Sherlock, you’re allowed not to be okay,” he said to his knees, before leaning back again. “No one can be expected to be unaffected by what happened.”

“I didn’t say I was unaffected,” Sherlock replied. He frowned as he surveyed John. The first droplets of rain smattered across the windows. “Things happen, regardless of who we are or our views. Victor is a murderer who tried to get out of it by sleeping with me-“

“He wasn’t sleeping with you to get out of going to prison,” John snapped. “Sherlock, he created a fake identity that you couldn’t see through-“

“Yes, I need to ask him how he did that…”

“He waited until you were drunk and took advantage of you,” John growled, and Sherlock looked taken aback. “He repeatedly drugged you. Mycroft sent spooks or whatever into his house… He waited until you were at your most vulnerable-“

Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“Oh for God’s sake, John, I wanted to have sex with him. I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do at any point.”

“Sherlock!” John yelled, standing up. His anger was rising, spurred on by pure hatred of Victor Trevor and what he’d done to the man he loved. 

“Loved?” The voice in John’s head giggled. “You’ve literally just left your wife. You have poor taste; you don’t know who you love.”

John ignored it. He’d punched a wall on his way into the flat, and the wall had retaliated by turning his knuckles black.

“For once in your life would you just bloody listen to me?” He asked. “Because you don’t know everything, not this time. And for once, I know what happened and I need you to listen to me without interrupting. Alright? It’s my turn to explain it all to you.”

“You’re scared of water, aren’t you?” John asked, sitting back down again. “Aren’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked puzzled. He tilted his head to the one side and the flames case shadows across his face that accentuated the wrinkles caused by a deep frown.

“No, of course not. You’re always harking on at me about spending too long in the shower.”

John shook his head.

“Let me amend my question. Are you scared of large expanses of water?” John’s eyes bore into Sherlock’s, and John took Sherlock’s silence to mean: “Yes.”

“I didn’t work it out for myself,” he admitted, “I had no idea. Mycroft told me.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, outraged that Mycroft had divulged such information, but John raised a finger to silence him. Surprisingly, it worked. 

“Wait, I’m still talking. Mycroft told me that when you were a kid, you and Victor were the best of friends,” John supplied, “and that you went on a family holiday with them to the seaside-“

“I didn’t have any friends as a child,” Sherlock said, but John cut across him.

“You did, Sherlock, you had loads of friends. You had the best games and came up with the best pirate stories. Mycroft told me all about it. You were the most popular kid in your class and Victor was right there with you.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m not scared of open water and I was not well-liked as a child. And I didn’t meet Victor as a child.”

John sighed heavily.

“Sherlock, I need you to listen to me.”

—

“Why do you hate me?”

“I didn’t say I hate you.”

“Well, you don’t like me.”

“Hm.”

“Mycroft.”

“For goodness sake, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed heavily. He didn’t look up from his newspaper. “I’m not having this conversation with you again.”

Sherlock frowned. 

They were sitting in their parent’s kitchen, at the large, worn, wooden table, with burn marks and scuffs etched across it from years of abuse. It was a cosy affair, with a large AGA dominating one wall, low ceilings, and a lovely view of the countryside from the window. 

Lush green hills rolled away into the distance. Sherlock could see them set as a backdrop through the window behind where Mycroft sat, opposite Sherlock. 

Sherlock loved the outdoors, but Mycroft loathed it. 

That made Sherlock like the outdoors more. 

“Why don’t you like me?” Sherlock asked. He sat on his hands. He knew mummy would tell him off for not eating his lunch, but there were more important things than food to worry about. Like why his elder brother disliked him so much.

“Mycroooft,” Sherlock whined when Mycroft ignored him again, “why don’t you like me? Everyone at school likes me. Why don’t you? Mycroft. Why don’t you like me? Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycrooooft!”

“Because you’re annoying,” Mycroft replied coldly, “and you live to please people, which is an incredibly foolish thing to do.”

“I like making people happy,” Sherlock said brightly. “It’s great fun. The other day Mrs Gupta said that I was the most helpful in the class.”

Mycroft dropped his newspaper onto the table and leaned over to his younger brother. “You crave the atmosphere and praise of others because you’re too stupid to realise that you are alone in this world and no matter how hard you try to prevent it, people will always let you down,” Mycroft snarled. 

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. 

“Did someone call you fat, again?” He asked. 

Mycroft turned red and turned the page of his paper. 

“You can’t make everyone happy, Sherlock, and not everyone is going to like you. And rather than ask questions about who doesn’t like you and why, it’s better to be disliked by everyone. That way you know where you stand when you enter a room.”

Sherlock slouched in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, pouting. 

“I don’t like you,” he grumbled, glaring at his cheese sandwiches. 

“Good,” Mycroft replied, still not looking at him. “You’re learning.”

At that moment Mummy bustled into the kitchen, her arms laden with wads of chunky essays.

“Oh, Sherly! You’ve hardly touched your sandwiches!” She sighed, dropping the essays onto the kitchen table.

Sherlock shrugged.

“I’m not hungry. And I don’t like cheese.”

Mummy sighed and crouched down next to her temperamental youngest child.

“Is that right?” She asked. “Because I was going to make pizza for dinner –“ Sherlock perked up “- with lots of mozzarella.”

“I like mozzarella!” Sherlock exclaimed, turning to face his mum. “I like cheese really, Mum. I do. But I don’t want to end up fat like Mycroft!”

Mycroft threw the newspaper at Sherlock and Sherlock began screaming at Mycroft in response, his little legs swinging under the table and chair as he balled his fists at his sides.

“You’re a brat!” Mycroft yelled, shouting over Sherlock’s insults, red in the face. “I hope you don’t come back from that holiday! You ruin everything all the time! You’re so annoying!”

“Mycroft!” Mummy gasped. 

“I hope you explode!” Sherlock shouted back. “I hate you! You fat lump!”

“Good!” 

“BOYS!” Mummy roared, and both children fell silent. Mycroft was glaring daggers at his mother.

“But he-“

“I don’t want to hear it, Mycroft,” she seethed. “Both of you, apologise to one another. Sherlock, you never insult someone for their appearance. Mycroft isn’t fat. Mycroft, never wish death on anybody, especially not your brother.” 

That night, Sherlock packed to go on holiday with his best friend and his family while Mycroft booked his own train tickets. He would go on an excursion of his own. 

—

It was a great holiday. Clacton-on-Sea wasn’t the most beautiful place on Earth, but there was sea, sand, and plenty of arcade games for Sherlock to win, and so he was more than happy to be there.

Mr and Mrs Trevor were warm, amiable people. They treated Sherlock like a second son, and indeed, with their shared dark hair and blue eyes they were often mistaken as being if not Sherlock’s parents, then at least an aunt and uncle of some form. 

Mr Trevor worked in government. For the longest time Sherlock presumed that he was the prime minister, until Mycroft (rather rudely, in Sherlock’s opinion), told him about some bloke called John Major. Apparently he was the real Prime Minister, and that Mr Trevor would “never become Prime Minister. There are plenty of ignorant voters, but none stupid enough to vote for him.”

Sherlock didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t suppose it mattered much. 

Mr and Mrs Trevor had a daughter, too, who was ten years Sherlock and Victor’s elder. She was a pleasant girl, too, but Sherlock and Victor loathed her for the simple fact that she was an older teenage girl and girls only cared about two things: fashion, and horses. Neither of which even remotely interested eight-year-olds Sherlock and Victor. 

The daughter was Melanie, and as Victor had been allowed to bring Sherlock to the static caravan Melanie had been allowed to bring her best friend, Jennifer. 

Jennifer was an ambitious, driven girl who kept too many horses. She came first in county dressage on multiple occasions, and had been known to sleep in the barn on stormy nights to keep her horses calm. Her and Melanie were thick as thieves, and united in their shared mission to annoy any younger siblings and their friends. 

Victor hated both Melanie and Jennifer, and Sherlock found it easy to empathise with his own older brother who seemed to be made of lard.

One evening, the third night of their holiday, Melanie and Jennifer has taken Sherlock aside. They’d grabbed him as he ran past their room, cackling like witches as Sherlock yelled. They closed the bedroom door.

“Shh…” Melanie giggled stupidly, handing Sherlock a water pistol. 

“What’re you doing?” Sherlock asked, frowning as he inspected the brightly coloured green gun. He’d been on the hunt for treasure when they’d grabbed him. The Kraken was fast approaching and he had to make it to the cove in time, otherwise he and Victor would both be eaten. Victor had gone to pillage supplies from a nearby abandoned ship while Sherlock searched for the treasure chest. Pirates didn’t use neon water pistols. They used dark grey canons. “I’m Victor’s friend,” he said. “Not yours.”

Sherlock turned to leave, but Jennifer grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back.

“Shush, Sherlock! We want you on our team. When Victor walks past, we’re going to soak him, okay?”

Sherlock looked between the two older girls, thinking it over. It did sound like fun, and pirates did have a lot of fun.

“But Victor’s my friend and shooting him with water might upset him,” he said. “I don’t want Victor to be upset.”

Jennifer glanced at Melanie. Apparently, Sherlock had said something neither of them had considered, and he watched them with benign interest as they had a silent conversation with one another, using nothing more than their expressions to communicate. Sherlock could make head nod tail or the conversation, but wished that he had a friendship like that, where he could talk without actually talking. It looked great!

Eventually, Melanie sighed.

“Sherlock, Victor doesn’t actually like you.”

Sherlock frowned at the two girls, his bottom lip sticking out a tad. But pirates didn’t cry. Unless they’d fallen into nettles, like he’d done the previous week.

“He likes me. I know he likes me. He’s my best friend.”

Jennifer shook her head.

“No, Sherlock, he doesn’t. We found his diary.”

“No you didn’t,” Sherlock argued. He still held the water gun. “Victor doesn’t have a diary. He said they’re for girls –“

Melanie rummaged around in her bag and pulled out a small, leather bound notebook. She handed it to Sherlock. It was too big for her manicured hands, but it was just the right size for Sherlock’s hands. There was a sticker on the front reading:

“Victor’s Diary! Top Secret!”

Sherlock handed it back to her.

“I’m not reading it. He doesn’t want anyone to.”

Jennifer snatched it out of Melanie’s hands. 

“Oh, I can’t be bothered with this,” she said. “Melanie, I can’t believe you’re getting be embroiled in all this stupid playground politics…”

But Melanie wasn’t listening to her. She was watching Sherlock with soft eyes, thoughtful but also sorrowful. Sherlock didn’t appreciate being looked at like that. At least Mycroft’s face told him he hated him all the time.

“Here,” Jennifer said eventually, thrusting a page from the diary under Sherlock’s nose. 

Sherlock began to read.

Dear Diary,

Today, I went to Sherlock’s home for dinner. I hate him a lot. He’s really smart and everyone likes him. No one likes me. The only person who hates Sherlock is his brother Mycroft so I like him because he hates Sherlock almost as much as I do. I wish Sherlock would die. Then I would be the most popular and people would think I am so much better than Sherlock. He’s really annoying and he talks too much. Today we caught a beetle but Sherlock wouldn’t let me rip its horns off because apparently it would hurt the bug. I put it in my pocket and ripped the horns off later. I wish I could rip Sherlock’s head off and see if that would hurt him.

\- Victor

Sherlock closed the diary and handed it back to Jennifer. He refused to cry in front of the older girls. He refused. Except, he had just found out that his best pirate friend was really the worst pirate friend, and he clenched his fists at his sides. Pirate betrayal was a good enough reason to cry. 

“Bloody hell,” Jennifer groaned as Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears.

“Sherlock…” Melanie dropped to her knees and hugged Sherlock tightly. “We shouldn’t have shown you, I’m sorry.”

It was only when Sherlock wiped his eyes and looked up did he see Victor standing in the doorway.

—

“The next day you went to the beach,” John said quietly. He’d sat down now. The flat was dark, save only for the orange glow of the fire as rain lashed against the windows. 

Sherlock was slouched in his chair, staring at the roaring fire. The flames danced and logs cracked, and Sherlock was mesmerised. 

“The cave,” he whispered, not taking his eyes off the fire. “I remember…”

John nodded.

“You were upset that Victor didn’t like you,” he said, holding his now cold mug with both hands. “And Victor wanted to make it up to you. So you set out with your nets and buckets. Down to the beach.”

—

“Oh hurry up, Sherlock!” Victor called, running ahead. “I know just the spot!”

Sherlock followed after him, but he didn’t trouble himself to run at the same pace as he clambered over rocks and pebbles, using the end of the net to steady his balance. The seaweed beneath his feet was treacherous, and he’d had too many experiences falling into barnacles to risk it happening again. 

His foot slipped and his foot landed in a rock pool.

“It’s cold!” He whined, the overly large bucket hitting his other leg. “Victor, wait for me!”

Overhead, a seagull flew by on the hunt for crabs or mussels. Sherlock watched it, frowning. He didn’t like seagulls. They always tried to steal his chips.

“Oi!” 

Victor lobbed a rock at the bird, but missed.

“Victor!” Sherlock shouted, heaving himself out of the pool and marching over to his friend. “Don’t throw rocks at birds! It’s not nice! You could injure them!”

“So?” Victor shrugged, throwing another rock at a different bird. “They’re only animals. They can’t feel anything.”

Sherlock gaped at him.

“Animals can feel things!” He huffed. “You’re an animal, you can feel things. I’m an animal, I can feel things.”

Victor surveyed him closely, squinting as the sun peaked out from behind a cloud. 

“Can you?” He asked, curious.

“Yes,” Sherlock grumbled. “Can’t you?”

A rock collided with Sherlock’s arm.

“Ouch! What was that for?!” Sherlock shouted, as another came dangerously close to his head. “Victor, stop it! You’re scaring me!”

But Victor didn’t stop. Sherlock turned to run but another rock caught the back of his leg and he slipped on yet more seaweed, his hands going out to stop his face from going in the water and catching on barnacles. He cried out as they dug into his hands, his eyes beginning to sting. 

Victor started to laugh.

“You do feel things!” He said, grinning gleefully. “Urgh, you’re doing that thing.”

Victor rolled his eyes as Sherlock started crying, tears running down his face as he clambered to stand up again. He caught a glimpse of an anemone, but didn’t stop to examine like he normally would. The waves were coming in now, and rocks that had been dry a few minutes before hand were now submerged.

“You shouldn’t throw rocks at people,” Sherlock sniffed, rubbing one of his sore hands with the other. “It’s mean.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually crying,” Victor chuckled.

Sherlock wiped his eyes. “I’m not crying, the salt water got into my eye and it stings. The tide is coming in.” He turned to leave, making his way back towards the coastal path they’d walked along to find the best rock pools. Victor called after him.

“Sherlock! Do you think this would hurt?” He asked, holding up the largest rock Sherlock had ever seen in his life. Victor cackled madly and Sherlock screamed, knowing that, whether Victor believed it to be a game or not, he was going to attempt to throw it at him.

“Put it down!” Sherlock shouted, still crying. “Put it down!”

“But I want to throw it!” Victor called back. “Let me throw it at you!”  
It was then that Sherlock had started running. He ran as fast as his little legs would carry him. He tripped and slipped over rocks and sea weed and splashed through rock pools, trying to get away from his best friend gone wrong. 

Victor didn’t like him. He’d never liked him. And Sherlock felt like an idiot.

He found a small cave. Victor’s shouts clung onto the wind and Sherlock caught them.

“I’m going to get you! I’m coming to get you!” 

Sherlock slipped into the cave as the tide trickled in with him. He clambered onto a rock at the back of the dark cave, breathing heavily as he watched the water seal him off and protect him from Victor. He was safe as long as the water kept coming.

Until he realised that Victor was gone, and if no one could get in then Sherlock couldn’t get out.

He screamed and shouted, desperate for anyone to help him as water rushed into the cave. He considered swimming out, but the waves drifting in were merciless as they dragged Sherlock’s net asunder, an experiment to see what they’d perhaps do to him. 

—

“I sat alone on that rock for hours,” Sherlock told John. “I thought I was going to drown. Obviously I wouldn’t have done,” he added, “but I thought I would… it was terrifying. I don’t know whether Victor had intended to harm me, but I believed he did at the time. I didn’t trust anyone after that. I wouldn’t talk. I kept having recurring nightmares about drowning. They took me out of school. I never saw Victor again.”

John watched him closely. He leaned back in his armchair, thinking it all over. Mycroft had told him the whole story. 

Victor had an affinity for violence. He enjoyed seeing people suffer. As a child it was something to explore; ripping the wings off butterflies in the name of science. Killing a rat not to keep them out the house but to watch them squirm as they died.

Victor was everything John had expected Sherlock to be like as a child.

Curious, imaginative, loathsome of people and born with a natural affinity to hate. He’d believed that Sherlock had simply learned to like people again, to tolerate them. He’d put up with John for long enough. It had never occurred to John that Sherlock was the product of a person he pretended to be just like.

John’s mind wandered to Sherlock helping the flow of wildlife into the garden at his and Mary’s house.

“Hedgehogs are endangered … we have to help.”

Why had he never seen that Sherlock had a heart? Why had he never seen that Sherlock vanished into secluded corners to protect himself but ended up damaging himself in the process?

John’s heart ached.  
“Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I’m sorry for not being there for you when you needed me.”

Sherlock’s brows knitted together and he frowned at John, evidently confused.

“I didn’t know you when I was eight,” he said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

John rubbed his forehead. “Sherlock, I mean, I’m sorry that you felt you had to find Atticus,” he said, looking up at him. “I should’ve… I’m sorry that you felt that you couldn’t tell me your sexual preferences, or that you were seeing someone.”

“Well,” Sherlock looked down, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Apology accept-“ he cut himself off. “No. I’m not doing this. John,” he took a deep breath. “I love you. I always have and I always will. I miss you when you’re not here and the only reason I didn’t tell you is because you’re straight and I didn’t want to ruin things between us. God.” He gulped down the remnants of his cold tea. “How do people do that? That was awful-“

John smiled at him. He was chuckling quietly, but the more he chuckled the louder he became until he was laughing, properly laughing, with tears streaming down his face as he clung onto the arms of his chair. Sherlock glared at him.

“John, this isn’t funny!” He said angrily, standing up and making to leave.

John shook his head. “No, Sherlock. No. We’re idiots. Both of us.”

Sherlock paused.

“Both of us?” He asked skeptically. “Really? Both of us?”

John nodded. He got to his feet, crossed the room to where Sherlock stood, took Sherlock’s face in his hands and pulled him into the most brilliant kiss Sherlock had ever experienced in his life.

Sherlock didn’t kiss him back at first, taken by surprise as his brain began shutting down.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh.”

The engines started up again, an electrical failure causing the fuse to go and Sherlock was shut in darkness. He held onto John tightly, the gears stuttering into motion again and suddenly all he could hear was John. All he could breathe was John. All he could think was John.

Why had he ever tried to use Atticus as a distraction?

Why had he ever used Atticus as a distraction when the real thing was just waiting, waiting because they were both too stupid to say anything. 

John chuckled. “Yeah, oh,” he said, giggling. “Sherlock.”

But Sherlock was leaning in for another kiss. It was powerful, hungry, like fireworks were going off around them as John pushed Sherlock against the wall, pinning him there and dominating him with a single kiss that left Sherlock weak at the knees. He needed more.

“John, I-“ he began, but the door burst open and Bill Murray stood there, gasping for breath.

“I tried ringing,” he said, clutching a stitch in his side. 

Sherlock and John quickly drew apart from one another, blushing furiously.

“Bill?” John asked, frowning. “What is it?”

Bill shook his head, gulping down air. “It’s-“

“Mary,” Sherlock cut him off. “John, we have to go. Now.”


End file.
